Bloody Shackles

Chapter 9: Harder to Breathe

This chapter is not inspired by a whole song, but by two lines of that song. Harder to Breathe by Maroon 5. 

Like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams. Is there anyone out there 'cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe. 

I hope you all enjoy this chapter, so please vote and comment. :)

Ellianna’s POV

            I ran. I shut the door and ran. I slid my hand along the wall as I rushed down the hallway, for the tears that were threatening to fall blurred my vision. Run away. Get out. Hope for escape. But escape isn’t possible. And hoping for such things will only get you killed.

            I’ll never escape him. The thought sent shivers down my already shaking form. Tripping and stumbling, I made my way across the estate to the servants’ quarters. I didn’t register my lack of clothing until Emily grabbed me by the arm, as I passed by the kitchen.

            “Elli, what happened? Why are you in your underwear? Where are your clothes?”

            I didn’t think I had the time to be embarrassed, but my cheeks blazed red anyway. My mind couldn’t form coherent thoughts. All that came out of my mouth was a jumbled mess of sounds. I shied away from her touch as she put her other hand on my shoulder and guided me away from the kitchen doorway.

            “Come on now, let’s go to my room. We can talk all about it.”

            I froze. Emily stopped beside me and gave me a perplexed look. I didn’t acknowledge her. I can’t talk about it. I won’t talk about it. Anything but that. So I ran. Ran away from the only friend I have. Her cries and pleas fell on deaf ears. I need to be alone. I need to get away. I need to be in the quiet, without the pain of peoples’ talking cluttering my head with unnecessary noise.

            So I went to the bathing area. Someplace where I knew no one would bother me. Not even Emily, because I’m sure she had to go back to her cleaning duties. I stepped into a shower stall and stripped myself of my undergarments. Undergarments that I no longer felt would serve any real purpose. …because they can so easily be taken off…. I ran a hand through what was left of my hair and shook my head. No need for thoughts like that. Not now.

            Turning the handle, I felt the water under the nozzle to gauge its temperature. The water that flowed over my hands was a scalding hot stream that burned my skin. The pain doesn’t matter. In fact, I welcomed the pain. Maybe, just maybe, this physical pain will mend the emotional and mental scars that have already begun to haunt me. The pain plagues me, but I will it away, forcing it down like a dreaded medicine.

            Grabbing a loofa I begin to wash myself. I forgot the soap. No matter. I’ll just scrub harder. And scrub I did. Pulling the loofa away, I looked at my inflamed skin, its glaring red splotches, from where I had scrubbed especially hard. It’s not enough. More pain. More pain, then I can forget the harshness of his words, the roughness of his touch. Forget, forget, forget.

            So I scratched and clawed at my arms, legs, and stomach. Nails break skin. Angry red marks glared back at me. I screamed strangled cries, none filled with anything that was understandable.  My screams turned to moans as I glanced at the crimson blood flowing from the jagged stripes that covered my skin. The water was stained red.

            My moans turned to whimpers, then those to sobs. Regret filled me at rejecting Emily’s offer.

            “I want to talk now,” I whispered.

            I want her arms around me, petting my head, rubbing my back, telling me that everything will be ok. I want her to comfort me. But she is not here. No one is here. No one to comfort me. Except the water. Water that I had once believed would wash the pain away. Like the water that cleansed my soul, and washed away my sin. The water did not save me. It did not protect me. God did not protect me. My body shook with the thought, and I tried to will it away, to force it into the recesses of my mind, but it stayed.

            God did not protect me. “Why weren’t you there? Why didn’t you protect me? Why?” I questioned softly, looking at the red water turn pink. My soft questions turned to loud demands.

            “Why weren’t there for me? Did you not know this would happen?! You know all and see all, yet you let this happen! You let him…! You let him….”

            I quieted when I glanced at the now clear water being sucked down the drain. An endless sorrow swirled within me. If only it was that easy. If only my pain could be taken away like that, to be swallowed by shadows, and never seen or thought of again. Then I cried. The tears streamed down my cheeks and melded with the water below. I turned off the shower, and watched as my tears and the remaining water dribbled downward. Into a silent, lightless, place filled with fear and darkness. It was a place of forgotten hopes and shattered dreams. A place that I wished I could go. 

              Yet, there was something that was more painful. More painful than wishing to go to a place I knew I could not, a place to escape this horrid reality. More painful than the bleeding scratches along my arms and legs. More painful than the harsh venom in his words. 

               More painful was that despite my scrubbing, my scratching and clawing, despite the rawness of my tears, I could still feel the imprint of his hands on my skin.