Willow never knew what happened to the men that raped her.
She was only guessing that they were either put away, or slaughtered by Trish and her unknown team.
If that was her real name.
Seeing the city again felt like seeing the light in a void. Stepping foot into a safe building felt like heaven. The building had heat, the officer to hand her off strictly telling the other to handle her gently.
She's been through hell. He said, soft eyes glancing down at her figure that could no longer tremble.
Willow couldn't speak. Couldn't begin to speak about what she's seen, and what she's done. The blood was still stained into her hand, the feeling of the knife slitting a large vein in that man's throat when she hit her fist down into his neck throbbing like her heart beat underneath her digits. It was gritty, disgusting, and immoral, but it was necessary.
Can I wash my hands? Willow asked quietly. They let her go.
She stared at herself in that mirror, barely recognizing her own face. It was 2 years since she got a good look at herself. Willow didn't like what she saw. Her skin was pale, lips thin and cheeks sunken in. The warm water was a luxury she didn't feel in a long time. Willow rubbed soap into the creases of her palm, hoping to wash the memories of her desperate attempts at survival away.
The survivor pressed her dull fingernails into the creases of her palm. She watched the water wash away the soap and grime, all down the drain where she watched it disappear into the darkness. Willow waited for serenity, but it never came in the full dose she craved.
She sat in an awkward seat, eyes staring at the floor. Willow didn't know what she was waiting for. It was night, maybe close to midnight. Being out felt surreal. She believed this was just a dream- a fantasy. Or maybe she was dead, laying in her corner with her rotting corpse beginning to just become bones, the skin that kept her together having dispersed the second her existence faded from the world.
Then, the door opened. She heard no voices. A gentle hand guided her up. Willow managed to look up, seeing faces that felt new yet felt so familiar. She could barely make them out, but then they started crying.
Her father collapsed to his knees, wrapping his hands around her, crying into her shoulder. Her mother hugged her, her brother trying to wrap his arms around his family. Willow stood there, the touch feeling like poison, but like a medicine. It felt familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Then, as if the dam of her suppressed emotions shattered, Willow put her head down, letting a few shaky breaths escape into her father's shoulder.
She refrained from touching them with her guilty hands. The hands that she used to kill a girl and to stab a man. Willow felt like they should know, but she couldn't find the words. Her tears were small, barely enough energy to give into the action of crying. There was not enough energy left in her to feel.
Her legs wobbled, her body beginning to shut itself down into sleep. Henrik was speaking to her but she couldn't hear. Her mother was trying to tell her she loved her but she couldn't hear.
Sammy was trying to apologize for his guilty conscious but she couldn't hear.
What's the date? Willow remembered asking. Her friend, whose face began to feel unfamiliar in her mind, glanced at her, a sad smile on her face.
February 20th, 2040.
YOU ARE READING
The Grean Household
Romance"It was a mistake..." She told her mother, folding her hands into each other. "Marrying him..." Her mother said nothing, she simply sat there as her only daughter stood across from her, on the verge of collapsing from bruised ribs and cracked shins...
