LET ME LOVE YOU - an imagine me au

SAVE ME

"You have to hide him."

                                     "There isn't much time."

"They are coming for him." 

                                                                     "Order. I will handle this myself."

I shudder at my father's voice. Even though I'm barely coherent his voice always stands out, always separating him from the rest.

The guards had come back in the room to inform my father of the rebels arrivance. He gave out orders and dismissed them, leaving my father and my defenseless body alone. Suddenly I'm petrified.

I hear him pace for a moment before he stands over me. Studying me. I feel the heat of his gaze as his eyes search me over. Probably deciding what injury he should leave for me to find when I awake.

I brace myself for his touch, wait for the pain. For him to close his fingers around my throat, to snap my wrist, shoot a bullet through my skull, something. 

But it doesn't come. Instead he just cups my face in his hand, runs his fingers across my cheekbone a few time before he releases my jaw and decides to ruffle my hair. He repeats the motion several times, he mussed my hair so much it's now disheveled and all in my face.

He sits down on my bed and shifts me so I'm lying on my side, he slowly lifts the back of my shirt up and I go still once I realize what he's looking at,

Scars.

He gently touches one and I flinch, he doesn't seen to notice, he just continues tracing the lines on my back. 

He quietly counts them,  I don't bother to listen, I already know the answer. Thirty-two to be exact. Thirty-two faded lines crisscrossed on my back. He touches one, the scar from my fourteenth birthday. He was furious that day, another Re-Establishment plan had failed and my father was to blame. On top of that he had run out of his favorite bourbon.

He needed something to take away the stress of the day, something to give him the buzz he so desperately required.

Luckily for him inflicting pain on others was a great substitute. 

My birthday had been the day before, I already had four fresh scars still bleeding from the day prior. I had quickly raced to my room as I heard the front door shut. Even an idiot could understand my father was absolutely infuriated and that it would be best to leave him alone.

I hid in my room for the rest of the afternoon, reading books my father had assigned me to determine if they were worth keeping or not. 

I was reading this one book called A Tale Of Two Cities, I had been absolutely enthralled by the story and unfortunately hadn't noticed as my father had called me to his office several times.

He stormed into my room more furious than I had ever seen. He screamed at me to follow him into his office and I did. Once we reached his office he slammed the door so hard a hinge actually fell off. That only angered him even more.

He ripped the door off the remaining hinge and set it to the side. He ordered me to take my shirt off and I did. He reached for the whip that had remained on his desk from the day prior. He was so swift in the movement I hadn't even noticed as the whip lashed me.

I fell to my knees and he took the opportunity to throw empty glass bottles at me. Saying words I never want to hear again. He left me after an hour, leaving me to bleed out, its only by some miracle that I survived.

I lock away the memory in a file, never to be opened again. Instead I focus on my father's labored breaths, he's getting angry.

"That damn girl."

He says it so quietly I almost miss it, I figure he must be talking about Ella. I just lie still as he clenches a piece of my shirt, balling the fabric in his hands. He toys with it so hard he rips it off my shoulder.

I don't move, the feeling of being ripped apart and vulnerable is a feeling I know all too well. He gasps quietly before standing up, I hear him throw the crumpled piece of fabric across the room.

"THAT DAMN GIRL!"

He screams the words at no one. I stifle a laugh at his anger, it's amusing to see him seething over a teenage girl. I think he heard me though, for in less than five seconds he's by my bedside, fingers wrapped around my throat. He's just about to squeeze when he goes still.

I open my eyes to take a look at him, I still can't move my body but I have just enough strength to do the small task. Instantly I regret the decision. He looks horrified, as if he couldn't believe he would try to choke me. I almost scoff at the irony of the situation.

Slowly he turns towards me, his face screaming an emotion I never knew he was capable of feeling: remorse.

He dramatically falls on top of me, cradling my body against his own. Words cannot describe how I'm feeling. Never in my lifetime would I have thought my father would ever touch me without causing pain, much less hold  me.

I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. I attempt to push my father off with the little strength I have left but it's no use, he just holds me tighter.

I struggle against him, he doesn't budge. He makes no effort to shush me, he knows he will win any fight against me. I will always lose.

In order to get him off of me I do something I would never do, I bite him.

"You son of a bitch!" 

He quickly wipes the blood off his finger before he raises his hand, he moves his arm robotically, his palm leaving a print on my face before I even have time to process it.

He looks at me in shock. He mumbles apologies over and over as he stumbles towards my bed as if he were drunk, only this time he's completely sober.

When he finally reaches my mattress he sits right beside me, he positions me so I'm laying on my side against him. I don't fight him, I have no strength and he would overpower me anyways. He rests his chin atop my head,  whispering words I never thought I'd hear. He strokes my back, his fingers linger on my scars, the gesture is calming. Soothing even.

It only takes me a second to remember my common sense, I shouldn't be leaning into his touch, letting him think he can fix this ruined version of me with a few hugs and kisses.  I will fulfill this role I've been given and I will not return back to the child who still believed in things like hope.

My father wants to play this game? Fine, we'll play. But this time?

I will be the winner.