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CHAPTER SIX
When Ines was twelve, she had a concussion falling off a swing. It had felt like her mind had been distorted and like someone had taken pieces of it, leaving her nauseous and confused while trying to remember what had happened.
She never remembered falling of the swing, nor the pain of hitting the ground, instead she only remembered the deep mark that was left on her skin, the scarred flesh an instant reminder of the painful accident.
When she woke, it was the same nauseous feeling that she had felt all those years ago, but now she remembered everything. She could feel the blade against her skin, his dulled voice and his cruel stare. She could feel every inch and very second like time had thinned and nothing except the pain existed.
Tears stained her face as she stared at her thigh, feeling so nauseous she wasn't sure if she would hurl or not.
William.
He had carved his name into her skin, marking her like the nail of a tattoo gun wasn't enough, it needed to bleed more for it to be real.
William. William. William.
Her room was the same but it felt different. Like her skin felt different, it didn't feel normal. She felt more unsafe than she'd ever had. The knife was missing and she wondered if he had kept it as a sick memory and she wondered how many people he had hurt, to be so confident in harming someone.
Flowers laid on her bedside table along with a note. It wasn't remorse, it wasn't pure, it was to make her feel small and grateful. She read the bleak apology and glanced at the roses, then hurled, rushing to the toilet to empty her stomach. She clung to the cold tile, her skin burning and aching while her chest felt like it would swallow itself, turn inside out and spit her heart out.
She remained on the floor, staring while her mind was blank, blank because it physically hurt to think. She stared at the name, stared at the gnarled skin until she hurled again. She didn't want to clean the wound, she wanted it to get infected and leave her to cut her own leg off. She wanted to scratch her own skin until his name wasn't visible, until the wound was as bitter as her pain felt. Despite that feeling, she couldn't bare staring at it, cleaning it and bandaging it so she didn't need to read his name. She hid it with shame.
