Suck me off

The Morning After

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Delia Davis: 3 years old

The room was cold as ice and delusional as all hell against a tired, fragile exterior, within her heartfelt desire for clarity.

At the tender age of 3 years she did not yet know the feeling of anything other than fright, the constant chest tightening weight that something bad would happen to her. One would not expect such a young child to stay that way, instead innocently believing in her parents visions and guidance, learning to slowly walk on chubby legs or laugh with childhood friends, no mistrusting thoughts to appear but when her next meal was, or bedtime of course.

Delia hugged the fraying blue curtains with dirty fingers leaving dirty markings leading to dirty punishments, her tender calloused lips pouted, unable to cry for fear of destruction. Her primrose button-downy dress with yellow polka dots trailed along the ground, it's matted edges shrouding hardened bare feet and raw toenails on the carpets lined with empty bottles of adult juice and colourful tablets she liked to taste once in a while. The purple marks dotting her paled skin hurt when she moved, agony she had felt worse too many times before. Her little body felt weak, unstable, dizzy, like those blue curtains were her only saviour in the scary, uncertain world. She clutched them in her meaty hands as if they were about to die too.

The damp room she currently resided scented of mould, smoke and ashes, containing only a singular window, it's drapes, a crusty sheet, a large wooden door locked from the outside until she was needed, taken back to that cold, shiny table with braclets that hurt when she tried to run away from the pain. Everything was constantly spinning, so cold, so absurdly normalised in a world she did not create for herself.

With an unsteady hand, she let her curiosity take lead and carefully rounded her fingers around the draped material and yanked them back with vigorous intent, peering through a small gap created in the first sunlight she had seen in all the years she'd been alive to remember.

Her pale jade eyes no longer widened with a scarcity or the slightest worry to concern her concentration as regular gun shots and rang out inside the rest of the illegal house, like usual. She did not care for this noise, instead focusing all present energy left, gathered from mouldy bread and coal, into the outside world, a slight glitch in the usual glassy exterior.

She locked eyes with a cloaked man standing outside the driveway in a black coat that trailed the floor like her dress, his oily ebony hair uneven and free from regular trims like her own Mommy did to her with the long sharpened kitchen knife every few weeks in another darkened room before she was allowed to see Daddy. She didn't like him very much.. he hurt. The face of the man was coated in a pale sheen, but the most curious thing she could understand at the time was his eyes, the purest thing she had ever laid face into.

Distant screams echoed their helplessness once again through the broken walls housing her, and, irritated, she was forced to turn away from the strange man and face the danger looming closer, unjustified, mistrusting. The wry face of her mother done up with fake blonde locks, lip fillers and bullet holes painting the material coating her skinny body red, presented herself behind the small of Delia's back, hoisting the child up by only her hair. She had a flash of time to glance back and see the strange man was gone. She didn't very much care for the lady called Mommy. Or the mommies, whoever they sent to fetch her next.

It was time to go, she detected urgency in the way everyone in the usually quiet house within it's locked doors was frantically running. Plaster chipped off the walls in waves and her mother held her out of sight, swearing obscenely
Chaos ruled with an iron fist.