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Nine. The Girl At Fault.
She once stood like a sunflower, golden and tall, basking by herself in a field of green beneath the warm kiss of the sun. She had radiated so much joy that no one would miss their opportunity to turn and admire the way she glistened, despite the heavy rain during winter.
Now she had been trampled. A cruel storm had passed through her meadow, tearing her roots from the soil and soaking her in bitter rain. It stripped every petal from her stem until she was barely upright. She drowned during the rain of emotions.
That was the tragic story of Amelia Bloom.
The storm had a name: it was Father.
She could hardly believe it. She could barely wrap her head around the fact that he had been the one to destroy her. The one who twisted the knife in the wound he had opened. What now? What was she supposed to do with the bloodstained rain dripping from her skin? With the anger whirling inside her?
He had been reckless. A pathetic liar. She longed to tear the title of "Father" away from him. He didn't deserve it. He never had. But how could she, after he admitted to having done everything to keep her safe, away from them?
Father was also irreplaceable. To question him was to be ungrateful. To defy him was a sin. Even the bruises could be explained away, the red print on her cheek—it could be justified. He was Father.
Her thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to her mother. Had Margot known all along? Had she seen the monster behind the man, the real intentions behind his actions? The secrets and the white lies born from the tip of the monster's tongue, the darkness crawling through the cracks in their home? Or had she, too, believed those lies?
Each time Amelia thought of her, a tear traced down her puffed cheek, warm against skin gone cold. Her eyes were glossy and red, just like her fragile heart. Her shirt grew damp with grief as her heart cracked open under the weight of all the thoughts and guilt clawing at her mind.
A flower once trampled doesn't grow back the same. The petals may never return. The stem will be crooked and fragile. Paler. But still, there she stood, breathless, battered, and different. And somehow, she still stood out among the rest.
She just wanted to go home. Not to that house, not to him. But to her. To her mother's arms. To safety, to warmth. To a place untouched by Father's hands. But all she could do was stare at the blank wall and brace herself for the next storm, hoping it wouldn't shred her to pieces.
Amelia slumped against the chair. The pain in her body was unmatched, something she had never felt before. Her throat felt raw from all her suppressed sobs after the door slammed shut and he left. Steve's head hung low, still unconscious. Robin breathed shakily, widened eyes, trying to understand what had just happened.
