Canary /Discontinued/

Chapter 23

Narrator's POV:

Warning:
The following chapter mentions eating disorders, sexual harassment, self harm, suicide attempts and bullying.

If you're unsettled by such content, please skip this chapter.
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Mail after mail.
Envelope upon envelope, the pile of pictures mockingly smiling at her, weaved a story.

A story of something cruel.

A story of something ruthless.

A story of something unforgiving.

Her story,

HER history…

It started of innocently enough.

A mother holding her daughter on a hospital bed.

The same mother tying ribbons into her toddler's hair.

The woman standing beside a man, smiling brightly.

Her standing by another man.

Then another.

Then another.

And that was where things started to go south.
With each change of partner, things started to spread.
Tears, bruises, bald spots, swelling, and redness.
Some on the men, some on her, and the majority on her daughter.
She wasn't even seven at the time.

The pictures taken in front of the home started to display the amortization.

The mother's face gradually became darker, her eyes filled with infatuation the further they neared the present.

Then men's face became blurred, each and every one of them started to look the same.

As for the child…

The bright, genuine smiles first turned into forced and soon after plastic.
The shine of her eyes dimmed, the rosy cheeks paled, the back hunched.

Then…

Around the time the pictures started depicting a 12-year-old, they started to become personal. And terrifyingly invasive all the same.

At the beginning, they were only yearbook photos.
Then selfies.
Then group pictures.

Only then did they just take a turn.

They switched over to ones taken from afar.
Alone, together with someone, with family, in a crowd, at an appointment; it didn't matter.
Because one thing never changed, she was always in the center of them.

Soon these seemingly innocent pictures turned into ones that can be seen as evidence.

Evidence of being groped while looking uncomfortable,

evidence of checking over her shoulder due to paranoia,

evidence of being bullied,

of getting harassed,

of throwing up multiple times during the day,

of cutting,

of taking in whole mouthsfull of pills …

of all the things she tried to hide so desperately.

They came frequently, so by the time of the 5th letter she began her habit of running to the door whenever the sound of mail being dropped met her ears.

After each and every pack being opened due to the pressure of curiosity came the frantic rush.

A rush to get rid of it all.
Tear it, burn it, flush it, do whatever to it; it didn't matter until it made them all disappear.

It became a weekly routine.
A habit fueled by shame and desperation.

Sadly, regardless of what she did, he wouldn't stop.

He started to taunt her by telling her that he has it all backed up and that he'll use them whenever he deems her as disobedient.

She knew that the right word for it is blackmail, she even called him out on it once later on in a moment of rage.
There was no need for him to avoid that word like it has the damn plague.

This one, single, foolish move almost costed her more than she bargained for as Elizabeth's phone pinged by her side.

She grabbed it out of curiosity and upon seeing the image sent by an unknown number almost dropped it.

'Seems like he doesn't mess around.' she concluded as the image of a curled up teen with bleeding wrists remained on the screen until she deleted it.

She was then forced to apologize, which she begrudgingly did so out of fear.

These past weeks started to take a toll on her mentally as her breakdowns became more frequent.
Unfortunately, both their severity and length seemed to have gotten worse.

First it was only just shallow breathing and trembling.
Then tears started to prick her eyes, after that, they started to roll down.
Then the shaking intensified, then it became even worse, then she started to curl up into a ball.
Then she dug her nails into her arms. Then came the hair pulling and finally the rocking and screaming.

As the envelopes started to come more often all of a sudden, her breakdowns became more common too.
And as they became usual, her fear, and anxiety started to skyrocket.

It took a toll on her body by that point.
She barely ate and slept through most of her days whenever insomnia showed her mercy.

It was always one or the other for her in this hellish state, hypersomnia or insomnia, you choose.

As her body began to weaken, so did her freshly acquired bit of mental health start to dispense bit by bit.

By that point, her walls were enforced with steel and iron, and her mask had crumbled into dust. The heart she wore on her cheek became visible.

Sadly, no matter how much she built her defenses back up, it only took one or two pictures to ruin it yet again.

So, she locked herself away into her mind, where all the toxicity started to poison her.
All of her messed up, loathing thoughts sank their poisonous fangs into whatever amount of confidence, safety, and sanity they could get their greedy hands on.

Pretty soon what was left of her was reduced to a pitiful mess scrambling to glue together her 'trusty, old' facade she relied on all this time.