sweet tea. -tkam

trapped.

-3rd pov-

TW: MENTION OF ABUSE, TRAFFICKING, SA, TRAUMA, MENTAL ISSUES

The starchy cotton sheets rustled as Elton shifted, asleep. The only noises filling the silent home was the breathing and movements of the man beside her, and the ticking of a grandfather clock that echoed from the hall. Daisy laid on her side, facing away from her husband, awake. Her thin nightgown failed to shield her from the growing chill she felt inside, the thin and frilly fabric that decorated her naked body only seemed to make her colder, the lightly structured lace that covered her breasts only made her feel more unease. She would have been looking out the bedroom window from where she laid, had its curtains not been nailed down to the wall beside it long ago, keeping the curtains forever pulled shut. The room was only lit by a sliver of light peeking under the bedroom door, which came from an oil lamp burning in the bathroom across the hall. She couldn't sleep, she never could. The darkness of the room terrified her to her core, and the man beside her made her feel a sickness in her stomach. Almost as if to combat the cold she felt, warm, salty tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over at a blink of her eyes. As she warm tears slipped down her soft face, dampening the sheet where her head was laid. It was a silent cry, But her being ached with suppressed cries for help. She gathered the courage to get out of the bed, quietly, her feet padded across the hardwood floors of the hall to the bathroom. She shut the door behind her cautiously, and turned on the lights. She didn't have any need to go to the bathroom, rather, she felt safer there. Not because the bathroom felt safe, but because anywhere he was was unsafe. She had caught a glimpse of the grandfather clock that had been making the ticking noise heard throughout the house, and the time read 4:03am. Another sleepless night, she thought. It was too early to wake up, but too late to go to sleep. Her husband would wake up in only a half hour less than three hours from then, she noted. She lifted her eyes to the silver framed mirror hung over the sink. She was met with the pathetic reflection of herself in the mirror, the sight filled her with shame. she looked to the barber scissors on the counter, her eyes filled again with pitiful tears. her shaky hand took hold of the cold metal, drawing it to her stomach. she gripped the scissors slowly with both hands as its sharp blades hovered above her stomach. she pulled her hands back, creating strong potential kinetic energy for her to release, for her to tear through her core and relive herself of the horrors haunting her daily life.

Daisy was born into a family of one father and one mother, but when her mother passed away due to consumption when daisy mae was only 5, she was left with her neglectful and abusive alcoholic father. Daisy was abused by her father, and was terrified of him her entire life. He would come up with horrible punishments, for example, locking her in the dark cellar for indeterminate amounts of time, fueling her fear of the dark in her adult life. When she was a teenager, she matured physically faster than her peers, and was sexually assaulted by her father, and her fathers friends, including people who worked on the family farm. In the year of 1929, the stock market crashed, and soon, the farm went under. It was worth nearly nothing between the cost it took to keep it going, and the little money they could receive, so her father found another way to support himself. Before the crash, daisy was occasionally sexually exploited for money, but people no longer had the disposable income for such services. He met a man who had moved from chicago, a man who had money. So, no questions asked, daisy was sold to the man as his bride, and taken home that very same night. She would never see her house, or her farm again. She had now been in this marriage for around 6 and a half years, and somehow, it only seemed to get worse. as she anticipated the stinging pain of the scissors, tears poured from her tightly shut eyes. her hands shook violently, unable to let herself stab her own body. She slid down the wall behind her to sit on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, pulling her knees to her chest.

"you're weak..."

daisy dropped her head into her arms in shame, wishing god had given her the strength to take her life, hating herself for her weakness. She felt disgusting. Her body felt as if it was violently hollow, while she simultaneously felt like her being was filled with a cold and slimy mucus, a rot. He had touched everywhere, all of the men had, and she could never scrub off nor forget their touch. It had stained her, whether it physically left a mark or not, her body remembered all the abuse. She recovered, she healed, but she never forgot. They took her innocence, they took her childhood, and she was forever made to feel like she was to blame for the men's vile actions. She couldn't shake the feeling of unworthiness and filth she carried with her day and night, and now was no different, as she sat on the bathroom floor. Her eyes were glazed with a film of pain, and there was almost a deep emptiness in them. She made no jolts or sobs as the tears dripped down her face this time, she simply stared at the vanity's drawers. There was no way out.