Care For Me ✔️

18

trigger warning: brief mentions of child abuse.

L I L Y

Pain is all I feel.

My eyes are crusty, it feels like they've been glued together. Balling my hands into fists, I rub away the feeling of sand and blink repeatedly, vision just as hazy as my memories.

I look around the room, confusion hitting me like a bus when I realise I'm laying on my tattered mattress rather than the floor. My body is covered, Atlas' sweatshirt hanging on my battered frame like a knee length dress.

Did I wake up at some point after passing out and I just can't remember? Did I move myself? Dress myself?

Curling my fingers around the hem of the sweater, I tug it up to my ribs and inspect the damage. To my surprise, my torso is wrapped front to back in a large white bandage.

What the frick?

I don't...

Did Jack to this?

He has been acting strange lately...

Never once have I witnessed him cry or disobey Father, especially not on my behalf. Unanswered questions swarm around in my head like bees searching for their queen.

What did Father say to him?

Why did Jack say no?

Why is he only now acting like he gives a shit?

It makes no sense, if he does care, if he does love me in his own weird way- love might be a bit of a stretch, but if he likes me, even just a smidge, why hasn't he ever stepped in before?

My head hurts from all the thoughts, even more so due to my injuries. I'm pretty sure there's a cut at the back of my head from where it hit the floor last night, and by the pounding around my temples, there must be a nasty bruise too.

Weakly, I pull myself up, wincing as I do, and drag myself off the mattress, staggering towards the small bathroom in the corner of my basement bedroom in the hopes of inspecting any visible injuries. 

I grip onto the cracked ceramic sink, using it as a frame to hold my weight. Staring at my reflection in the old, broken mirror, my lifeless eyes stare back at me almost mockingly. Purple and dark blue colour the puffy skin beneath, exhaustion showing from outside in.

There's a large cut on the side of my face just above my temple, hues of purple and red splattered around the torn skin. My hair sticks to the side of my face, dried in like copper smelling glue.

Peeling off the sweatshirt, I start unwrapping the bandages from my torso. I swallow, eyes burning with the feel of tears, but no water comes. Dehydrated, I think.

A gasp echos from my lips as I take in the damage. Red blisters cover my stomach like freckles of acne, some are coin sized while others resemble the size of an insect bite. My thighs have some angry red patches, but thankfully not blisters. I can just imagine the discomfit if they had, my school tights would've only aggravated them further. I tilt my head to the opposite side of the bloodied cut, the outline of Father's fingers imprinted weakly on my skin.