𝐏𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒 | ✍︎︎

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟰𝟳

TW: BLOOD

My eyes flutter open, to my surprise my back isn't sore. I must have been good yesterday.

A small smile graces my lips at the thought as I sit up, no pain running through me.

Maybe if I do something more, mommy will be proud of me and I won't hurt anymore!

At the thought I jump from the bed, which had been surprisingly comfortable, and make my way toward the door. Another thing that surprises me is the lack of squeaking, seeing as the floor always does with the slightest bit of pressure or movement.

Today is just my day.

I open the door, and again no squeak! Walking down the halls, I make sure to be extra quiet on the stairs as to not test my luck.

What would make mommy happy?

I try shaking away the thoughts of me in a dress much too small for me, I know mommy can't really afford everything for us. I think the smaller ones are cheaper.

She likes when things are clean.

A vision of mommy yelling at me for the dishes not being clean flashes through my mind. Maybe if I do it now she won't be mad anymore.

Without another thought, I rush to the kitchen. Plates and utensils from our meals prior fill the sink.

I nod to myself, scurrying over to the sink without waisting a second. I quickly grasp a dirty plate, running it under the water and search for a sponge.

Upon finding one, I don't waste another minute before scrubbing the plate clean. The food falls from it, washing down the drain. A small smile graces my face, mommy will be so proud.

I scrub dish after dish, setting them carefully into the dish washer. The faint sliver of light from the bright moon shines through the window, shimmering the clean plates and bowls.

I move onto the utensils next, washing all the spoons then forks. I do it with such rush one may think it was a race. And maybe it is, a race with my own heart beat.

I don't stop when everything starts sliding from my hands, or when the cluttering of the dishes get fairly loud. I don't stop until a certain steak knife I'm washing cuts through my hand.

I freeze. My heart freezes, my mind freezes, my eyes freeze on the sight of the blood dripping from my palm.

The knife clatters against the sink, disappearing in the bubbles. A drop of red lands on the mountains of white, drifting down to the knife as well.

Blood.

Blood has never really been a friend of mine, I used to be fine with it until I saw Thiago.

The sight of my hand excessively bleeding causes my stomach to churn, and the color in my face to wash away.