You’ve been in this room for a year. For eons. Your mother is here. She holds you gently, whispers in your ear. You’ve always missed her, even though you never really knew her.
Your blood burns (detoxing) it’s helping you, or that’s what your brother told you, before he left you here. (He’s right, your brother is always right, you must be pure. He told you)
Now, pureness is nothing. There is nothing but pain, your mother is gone, there is nothing but you, tied to this table, the piss in your jeans, blood in your hair, the bucket and bottle of water just out of reach.
You’re hallucinating, or you must be when your brother walks down the stairs, cruel look in his eyes.
He tells you that you disgust him. Ugly. A flopping fish on the beach, dying, pathetic. He tells that you are impure. He will fix you.
This doesn’t feel anything like being fixed. It hurts, bleeding on the table, and that is real.
It was all real, you learn three months later, pregnant.