Nikolas

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Eventually I get up and out from the shower. 

I wrap a towel around my shivering body, the cold air feeling like tiny knives stabbing me repeatedly. When I look up, I'm not prepared to see the state that I'm in. Goosebumps break out on my flesh as I meet my dead eyes in the reflection in the mirror. 

I want to cry but I feel like I've run out of tears to squeeze out. 

God, I look a mess. My eye is swollen and so are my lips. But the bruises around them are so visible, it only reminds me of how they happened. The cut on my forehead looks so ugly, almost offensive as it stares back at me. I barely even look like myself. The different bruises and cuts around my neck and chest remind me of his lips and hands on me. My hands are shaking as I let go of the towel, exposing my body to the mirror. My wrists have bruises of his hands on them and I can see the bruises between my thighs. The blue and purple bruises stand out so strongly on my pale skin. 

Every cut, every bruise reminds me of him. Of the permanent damage he's done to me. Though I know these bruises would go away, what he's done to me would stay forever. It makes my head spin and panic brew within me. 

I have to look away and walk out of the bathroom, my battered body becoming too much to look at. 

Getting dressed in thick sweats and a sweater after throwing on some clean underwear, wanting to feel less exposed, to feel less raw, I don't feel any different. Though the clothes are supposed to be my armor, something to protect me from the predators in the outside world, it does nothing to how I feel inside. 

I had no motivation to move. To do anything. 

I ignore that feeling and exit my room. I don't know what compels me to be able to step out into this fucked-up world again, but there's a small of me that wants to just curl up in my mother's arms. To be able to hug her and feel her warmth again. To be able to see her again look at me with love and to hear her express how much she loves me again. To be my mom again. 

Thinking of the way it felt to be held as a child, it's all I want right now. I want her to kiss my head and run her fingers through my hair. To whisper promises in my ears, even if they were lies. I just wanted to feel that warm feeling of a mother's love. I've never craved it this much. 

I walk downstairs, legs shaking, threatening to give out. I was shivering, the thick sweater and pants doing nothing to keep me warm. Once I get to the bottom, I try to find my mother. I see her outside, in the garden, and I can feel the tears streaming down my face. Opening the door, I ignore the rational thoughts that tell me that she wouldn't care, and start walking towards her. I ignore the screaming thoughts trying to protect me from the hurt it would bring when she pushes me away again. 

I don't even bother putting on shoes, letting my bare feet step onto the cool grass. 

She doesn't see me until I'm in front of her, panting and crying. I probably look crazy. 

"Mommy," I start sobbing, wanting her to get up and hug me. To do anything but just stand there and stare at me. She's looking at me and I swear I see something pass through her eyes, something that looks like pain, but it's gone the second I see it and the coldness and disgust return to her stare, grabbing my fragile heart and crushing it with her bare hands. 

But I ignore it and start walking towards her, wanting to just be held by her. When I hug her, she's stiff as a board. She does nothing as I squeeze her tight, trying to feel her warmth. To feel anything that proves to me that she's still my mom. 

But nothing. 

She just stands there as I try not to collapse on her. 

When I realize I'm going to get nothing, my entire soul dissipates into nothing. It's feels even worse than the physical blows I've been recieving from Jonas as I don't even get a simple reaction from her. I realize how pathetic I am. I realize that I don't need her to save me from Jonas. I don't need her to take me away or even talk to me. I just want her to see me. I just want her to look at me. Give me a tiny sign, even as simple as a glance to tell me that she's still my mom.