The Serene Song of The Broken Singer

Ch.II Trixibella Morris

In and out, in and out, in AND out.

'-losing too much blood!'

'I know!'

'We can't lose the brat, now!'

'I know!'

'We'll look suspicious!'

'No one expects a thing!'

'You don't know that!'

'STOP BREATHING DOWN MY NECK AND DO SOMETHING USEFUL!!!'

A door slams shut and I gasp as I hold my breath in. I'm not dead. I'm anything but dead. I'm in pain. I'm suffering. I'm scared. I'm too aware of everything. I just want everything to stop. I want a breather. I want a break. What even happened? Did I do something bad again? I always do. I whimper at the mere thought and the hands, that were working on me before, stopped. Then a resennating slap echoes across the room. My cheek stung with pain. I don't do anything. I can't even find it in myself to tremble. I was just that exhausted. I was in pain.

'Where are you listening in on that conversation?!' The voice hisses in my ear as they give my ear a rough tug and I wince as I close my eyes even tighter. I almost pop them opening, feeling a cold sharp object against the top inner part of my ear. My body starts to tremble uncontrollably. 'Do you want to match your dead brother?' The voice threatens and I shake my head vigorously. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to lose my ear. I didn't even mean to listen in on their conversation. Unlike my brother. But, he only did it for sister. She demanded he do it. He lost an ear over that. He was sick to his stomach and had suffered a fever for a month. They almost killed him. Said he was unnecessary luggage. Said he was useless. I fought. I got beat. I was near death myself. I was terrified, but determined. I wanted him alive. I was scared to lose him. I cared for him.

I bit my lip as I could feel the person going back to fiddling with the knife in my stomach and I let out a cry as they took out the bullet. The door slammed open. I shook in my place as I could feel vomit clawing up my throat. My toes were curling in. My thoughts were scattered. I was going to have a panic attack and the heat of it hasn't even appeared yet.

I didn't want this.

'I got the bullet out, finally.' The voice gruffly says and I could heal the small metal hitting the concrete ground with a cringing sound. I shuddered as an electric feeling passed over my abdomen and I let out a cry of pain. She did that on purpose. I know she did. But, she didn't care. That's why she did it. She wanted to see me suffer like the day I made her suffer. A plastic, hollow, bucket drops to the ground with a loud thud and I tense as I start to breathe in deeply. They weren't helping my panic attack, yet again, they weren't trying to.

'Should we cut off a leg so the brat doesn't escape once more?' The voice was sickenly sweet and I felt physically ill even more. It was getting hard and harder to not vomit; not that I would have anything to throw-up anyways. I just felt ill. I could hear feet pitter patter before hands were slammed on the table that I was staying on. 'ANSWER ME!' I finch as I slowly open my eyes and I'm faced with my aging mother. Her face was quite red and I wondered for a brief second if there was a possible chance of her exploding. The thought was silly. I ignored it. I gulped and shook my head at my mother's previous question. I guess she was talking to me and not father. I peeked a fearsome glance at my father and he had a stoic expression on his aging face.

Sister always looked like father. I think that's why she sometimes was like him. She was like a clone of him. It was disturbing. I felt another panic attack rising, but I'm not even sure if the first one passed and if it didn't pass does that mean I'm still going through the first one? I couldn't be, could I?

I didn't know. I was scared. I was covered in my own blood, the ground, my own urine, and hydrogen peroxide that my mother had thrown a bucket full of hydrogen peroxide onto my open wound. She was a terrible mother. She didn't know how to be motherly. I scowled at her and she reached over to me and wrapped her skinny fingers around my neck and wringed me half to death. I shook, terrified. I think I'm going through another panic attack but it is getting harder to decipher when one has stopped and when another has started. Everything is blurring into one glob of motion and I wasn't scared. I've been living like this since the day I was born. I'm immune to it. I was numb to it.

'Clean the house you little wrench!' Mother screams at me as her spit flies onto my face and I'm about to scowl once more but I force myself to keep my face calm. I watch her and father leave me in the basement and I push myself off of the metal table. It was a butcher's table where they would cut meat or turn steak to ground beef. The table was never cleaned once since the day my parents bought it. It was disgusting.

It was unsanitary.

Mother did care. She cared for me. She gave me hydrogen peroxide. It had alcohol in it. Alcohol burns the germs away. She saved me. She cared for me. I should make a special dinner for her and father. Father saved me. He took the nasty bullet out of me. A smile graces my lips as my eyes crinkle at the action.

I love my parents.

I carried myself to the closest in the basement and the door creaked on its rusted hinges. I cringe at the sound. It sounded just as bad as someone scraping their nails on a chalkboard. It was all so bad. I didn't like those sounds. I grabbed the mop and bucket out of the closet and I decided to keep the door open. I didn't want to hear the awful sound again. It hurt my ears.

I went to the sink in the basement and I filled it close to the top with the murky water. The murky water never smells good. It smells rotten and smells bad in general. I scrunch my nose at the smell. It was really unpleasant. I grabbed the bar of soap that I've used many times and I dropped it in the bucket. I stick my hand in next and I start stirring the concoction together until I see foam at the top of the water. I was satisfied enough with it to lift the heavy bucket to the ground and even though I tried to be careful it still landed with a loud thud. I wince at the sound and I hum softly to myself as I put the mop in the somewhat clean water and I start mopping the dirty floor. It was dirty. There was dried blood. The blood was everywhere. It covered every inch of the flooring. It was nasty. It was dirty.

I bear down on the mop as I start to scrub it harder against the diary floor and I let out a frustrated cry when I saw it was doing nothing to the blood on the floor. I fell to my knees and I started to cry and I could feel a fourth panic attack rising in my chest but I swallowed it down to the best of my abilities as my body trembled and my knees were too weak to stand. I didn't care. I forced myself onto my feet and I continued to mop the floor with such vigor. I didn't even care that my hands started to be covered in blisters. I didn't care. I kept digging the top of the mop into my hands and it started to leave an indent in my hands. I didn't care if the mop was broken so instead of it being a smooth curved top it now a jagged revenged top. I didn't care, I could feel the mop piercing into my flesh. I was almost done with the cleaning. I was almost happy.

But then, something truly disturbing happened. Mother came down the stairs and dumped blood onto the basement floor. I felt bile rising in my throat as I screamed loudly and I could feel my body sway side-to-side. I think I was physically sick. I felt sick. Was I sick?

I don't know. I only know that mother stormed back up the stairs. I don't even know where she got the blood from, but then I remembered. It was my period bucket. My cheeks turned red with embarrassment and disgust. I wasn't allowed the luxuries of a pad or tampon, neither or less toilet paper. I had to clean myself every time I used the bathroom.

The bile rose more into my throat and I coughed vigorously as it felt like the period blood was gurgling and I walked to it cautiously before hitting the mop repeatedly on it. I felt disgusted. I felt anger. I felt like crying and hurling.

In my madness I threw the mop to the side and threw myself into the blood. I rolled around in it, smearing it everywhere on myself. I grabbed at it and licked it and puked it. I felt maddened by it. I felt violated as I curled in a fetal position and cried loudly. I felt dirty and exposed. So, exposed. My body was trembling as if I was having an aneurysm or was undergoing shock, but I didn't know why. I just felt so dirty from the blood. The blood invaded my safe space. It mocked me. It drives me mad. It was only right to throw myself in it.

So filthy, I'm so filthy, filthy little pig. I cried hard. So hard that my eyes felt exhausted and my lungs painfully hurt. It was as if I was breathing fire. Tempting it. Seducing it.