Darla Coldwell's backstory.

Part Two.

(This chapter includes mentions of sexu@l assault, swearing, bl00d and s€lf harm, and I am so sorry if anything like this has happened—you're not alone. If you need anyone to talk to, feel free to talk to me. I won't force it upon anybody, it's only if your comfortable. If you are sensitive to any topics above, please click off this.)

We never saw my Grandfather again after that.
He done stuff to me, stuff I don't want to mention yet don't want to be dishonest with.
Pinned me to the bed.
Covered my mouth.
I tried screaming, biting him, kicking and crying—nothing worked.
'Shh, just relax, Darling.'
He took my clothes off.
The one man, that I would trust with anything, lost my trust in that very moment.
I couldn't get help.

I eventually told my Mother about it. She knew I wouldn't be dishonest about this topic.
'Thank you so much for telling me, Darling.' She held my shoulder comfortingly. 'Do you need a hug?'
I nod, running into her arms. I sniffled as she stroked my hair.
I still remember her yells as she confronted my Grandfather about it. Running downstairs—seeing her livid expression sent shivers down my spine. She threw a vase to the ground, enraged.
'Mother! Please stop!' I beg, trying to hold her back. I was afraid she was going to hurt my Grandfather. Even though he sexually assaulted me, I still loved him. I was a kindhearted 13 year old, okay?
And that was when he never came to visit again.

I also hated my thighs, mainly for what happened. I didn't understand. All the girls in my class were so skinny. No matter what I did I couldn't lose weight.
I grabbed scissors from the kitchen, sneaking them into my room.
I began carving my thighs, not caring if it left scars.
I wanted them gone. I wanted the memories of my Grandfather touching my thighs gone.
Blood spilt everywhere—I had gone too deep.
I burst into tears, the pain hitting me like a bad dream.
'Go.. away!' I snap, cutting my thighs.
Cut.
Cut.
Cut.
I couldn't stop.

A year later, it was my 14th birthday.
The memories hadn't faded. I wanted them to go, so fucking bad.
I blew out the candles—perhaps I could wish for them to. Maybe I could wish for myself to fade away.
I wasn't dumb, I knew they'd never go.
My Mother cheered.
'Happy birthday, Darling!'
I looked at her. She had done her best to make it special, although my Father stood in the back carelessly and my sisters were eyeing up the cake.
'Mother..?'
'Hm?'
'Could you please call me.. uhm.. Darla..?' I requested.
'Why is that, love?'
'I just.. memories.'
'Oh.' She had realised. 'Oh—Oh of course, Darla!'
'Thank you.'

Late at night, I went outside.
I run down the street, wearing black (quite oversized) trousers, a white blouse and a black beret to cover my face.
I bump into someone, falling back onto the cobblestone pavement.
'Oh, sorry.' The person muttered. They didn't even bother help me up, what an asshole.
'Yeah, I'm fine too.' I snapped, getting up and wiping anything off my trousers. I look up at the person.
'Woah.' I whisper.
It was a young, quite tall boy—my age. He was so handsome. His ocean blue eyes covered with his pleasant brown hair. He was so breathtaking.
'Uh, why are you staring at me, Ma'am?'
'My apologises. I'm Darling Coldwell, but please, call me Darla.' I held my hand out to shake, blushing madly but refusing to admit. He stared down at me as if I was an annoying bug.
'I don't shake hands, Darla.' He mumbled.
'Alright, well I best be going. Do you live around here?'
He nodded.
'Alright, bye.'
I walk past him nervously, feeling him staring at the back of my head. Perhaps it was because I was wearing something so masculine in 1919. Yet again, he shouldn't be questioning people's fashion choices. Men can wear what they want, so why can't women? (SCREAMING FEMINI—)
I wander around the dark streets, a bit scared—too late to back out.
Someone grabs my hand.
'Why hello, gorgeous lass.' It was another man, wanting to bring a woman back to their one house apartment they share with their mothers, what a knob.
'Please let go of me, Sir!'
'Want'a come back to my place, Ma'am?'
I kick his shin, but he still has a tight grip on my hand.
'Leave me alone, you stuck-up bitch!' I snap.
He begins dragging me, but I scream and yell.
'She said let go!' The young boy was back, snatching me away from the man.
I cling onto his arm, relived that someone had saved me.
'My apologises, we were just talking.' The man looked horrified, walking away in a hurry.
'I didn't need your help, si—'
'Elijah Thornton, and are you absolutely certain you "didn't need help"?'
'Yes.' I crossed my arms.
'So let's list the things that could happen if I didn't show up to your rescue, damsel in distress. He would have kidnapped you and rape—'
'Do not say that.' The memories were coming back.
'Huh?'
'Just don't!' I snap.
He looks away. Great, I annoyed him.
'I'm sorry.'
'No, I am. Do you want me to walk you home?'
'I'd appreciate that.'
He taked my hand, just to make me feel comfortable and safe.
I intertwined my fingers—both walking down the empty, dark streets of England, 1919. The only light source was the gas-lit lamps running down the streets.
'It's lovely in the evening.' I admit.
'Mhm, isn't it?'
'Where are you from?' I ask.
'Italy.'
'Really? That's so far away!'
'Mhm.'
'Do you speak it fluently?' I was so curious.
'A little bit.'
'That's splendid!' I grinned. We had arrived to my house.
'Farewell, Miss Coldwell.'
'See you soon, Mr Thornton.' I waved, letting go of his hand and running inside my house.