Sarah Paulson One Shots

scars from the past - cordelia goode

prompt: reader has a horrible past that resulted in a beautiful future.

trigger warning: abuse, talk of death, self harm

word count: 2686

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

You've been at the coven for about three months. You remember the first time you came here; You and your father's relationship was completely destroyed after your mothers death. You and your father used to do practically everything together. You used to go to football games, watch horror movies, listen to old songs while cooking. But when your mother died in a car accident, he took it hard, harder than you. Or maybe he just didn't know how to handle his emotions, but you couldn't blame him, you didn't either.

He was always out drinking, he would often come home with some random woman. The women were never nice, they were always very rude and they always seemed to hate you. Just like your father. One day as usual, he brought home a woman. They were both awfully drunk, he was more drunk than he normally was. You were in your room, waiting for them to fall asleep. You hadn't eaten that day since I didn't want to disturb them, so you were starving. You carefully got out of bed, walked to your door and opened it quietly. You looked around and neither of them were there. You walked downstairs to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. The only thing you could see was a jar with pickles and a juice box. It was better than nothing. You grabbed the jar and tried as quietly as you could, to open it. It was stuck so it was hard to open. You tried until it felt like you were going to pass out. You placed the jar down on the kitchen island with a defeated sigh leaving your dry lips. It was impossble to do things, well impossible for you. You would often go days without food because of your father, so due to the lack of food you would always feel weak and lightheaded.

You decided that you would at least keep yourself hydrated, so you went over to the fridge and grabbed the juice box. You once again walked over to the kitchen island and poured the juice in a glass. When you went to put back the jar in the fridge you accidentally dropped it. The loud sound of glass shattering made your ears ring, it felt like everything was going in slow-motion but your thoughts were spinning around in your head faster than anything else. You knew exactly what was going to happen, like it was a routine, second nature; You doing the smallest thing to annoy your dad, and then him making you feel so incredibly worthless that every time you saw your reflection in a mirror, you wanted to throw up.

You didn't even acknowledge your dads presence until you were on the floor. The cold, stone hard floor was the nearest you could get to a hug. You felt an excrutiating pain in your stomach, then your back. It was like your whole body was on fire, or like one thousand needles were going into your body all at once. When your dad finally became too exhasted to keep going, he went back up to his new hooker. All you wanted was for everything to end, you wanted the pain to end, the fear, the constant feeling of hopelessnes, to just end. You just wanted to feel happiness, at peace, even if it was just for a moment. You wanted to feel like your life had a meaning. You didn't know if you had closed your eyes or if you had blacked out, but when you processed what had just happened you sat up slowly. You looked down to your stomach and lifted up your shirt. You winced in pain when the fabric touched your body. The bruise on your stomach was already in a blue/ brown color. You didn't even have tears in your eyes, it was like they had all vanished, like everything was too rough, too much, too... real.

You slowly tried to get yourself to stand up. You wanted to scream from the pain, but it would just make everything worse. You just stood by the kitchen island for a little while, with your eyes closed, in hope to just disappear from this world. You wondered why this was happening, what I could have done to deserve this. But you didn't want to complain. You walked upstairs to your room, praying that your father was asleep.