𝐏𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒 | ✍︎︎

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟲

For what I thought was all of my life, I had been used to waking up in scary situations.

Waking up to screaming, blood on the floor, agonizing pain to the point you can't breathe is something I was used, what I was taught to be used to.

And for a while, I thought that was normal, that everyone endured what I had, that I was overreacting for the way my mother treated me because at least she loved me.

I found out not too long ago, that everything I was taught and forced myself to believe, to be my own comfort, was a lie.

And that fact, was the opposite of comfort, completely uncomfortable.

I had been uncomfortable around my brothers, my new room, food, anything.

And that made me angry, because aren't I supposed to be comfortable when I was saved from a gruesome situation?

My whole life, I thought what I was going through was normal. And maybe if I had still believed that then it wouldn't have been so hard to adapt, to mold myself so I sit comfortably on this new wobbly pedestal that represents my life.

A few days ago, while I was in Ezrahs room to hide away from Zara, proving Ezrahs nickname of piccolo orso to be correct, despite his smugness. He had told me that if he were to paint a picture of my life, it would be the most gruesome thing he had ever created.

The eyes, he had said, painting on the canvas like what he was saying didn't even mean anything, I can see it in your eyes, Clailea.

He had put down he is paint brush then, staring at my eyes as if to refresh his memory. I had to fight the urge to look away.

You're trying to act like everything is okay, and that's going to cause an outburst. So much water can be held in a glass case at a time. I use painting as a way to drain a little of the water. And then he went back to painting as if nothing had been said, and with that I didn't say anything of it either.

I pretended, like he was so blatantly pointing out I did on the regular, and maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should've told him how truly deep his words had hit me. How gloriously painful each sentence blew into my heart.

Maybe if I had said something, acknowledged that he was creating a positive impact on me, he would've said more.

Maybe, what if, maybe.

All past interactions in which I should've spoken hit me now, in this little dark bubble I'm somehow trapped in.

I try not to dwell on them too hard, try not to make up different scenarios in which I could've helped, could've saved people.

For example, Flora and Margo, the run away twins.

They had escaped the day my mother brought them in, most of them had, with her being so out of it with the white stuff she put up her nose.