His Little Heart

Facing Facts

Trigger Warnings: The following involves reference to the main character's past dealing with severe trauma. Her trauma involves and discusses heavily on the mature and horrifying topic of physical and sexual abuse. Please, read at your discretion.

Please note: For those unable to read or handle these topics or themes, I suggest you not read or discontinue Luna's story. From this point forward, the plot will deal with mature content that some may find discomforting or is "inappropriate".

Please, handle this story with care and respect. Trauma of any kind should be acknowledged and taken seriously. This is a piece of fiction, but these topics are not. Trauma and assault is real.

Again, please read at your own discretion.

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I remained in the small shower space for a little longer.

I stood there, unmoving, silently kicking myself for my stupidity and mistake. A horrible surge of grief and panic held me in paralysis, making it difficult to step out of the shower. My mind was frozen, replaying Dr. Cumberbatch's shock and disappointment in me. It felt unreal, what I'd done, like it shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have, but it did, and now, I was standing underneath a dripping shower-head with my heart at the bottom of the floor. My stomach, too, was also on the floor.

I should've kept my tongue in check. I could've, would've, should've. My temper, I should've kept in line, reeled in my panic and not jumped to such perverted conclusion (I need to somehow wash that ill word out of my vocabulary). Dr. Cumberbatch, I should not have yelled at, and instead, seen with my own eyes the reality of the situation, which wasn't what my mind had conjured up.

He'd not been looking at me.

No, he'd kept to his promise. He was looking in the opposite direction when I yelled at him. His eyes were securely closed, and even after I threw my first cruel remark at him, he'd immediately apologized. He didn't committed the crime I'd thought he had. He wasn't guilty.

I yelled at him again, added more salt to the wound. I called him that word again. I dropped the f-bomb on him, too, and that's when he drew away for cover. Now, he's sheltering just outside the bathroom door, waiting for me come out.

No, he wasn't sheltering, and if I was in his shoes, waiting for an apology. However, I'd deliver a good mouth-washing first, place whoever insured me in the corner for a time-out, and after a few hours, demand the apology. That's what I would do, no, expected to happen. This wasn't my first rodeo in saying crude words not appropriate for my age to say, and from past experiences, the consequences I'd faced as punishment.

"How dare you," a man's voice roared in my mind. "How dare you say such a disgusting word against me!"

"It's true," another voice spat back, shaking. "It's what you are, you perv-!"

There was a terrible yelp, a child cried out, young and small, defenseless against the fist that struck the young girl. My body flinched, and my mouth clamped shut to kept from exclaiming. There was another horrible cry, and I felt as the child - roaming free in agony from my own bruised past - fell before the outline of a man.

"You ungrateful little girl, you brat!"

The girl began to cry.

"You never learn. How many more times must I do this before you get it through your stupid little head that I'm the only one who loves you! How could you say such a thing about me? Huh? After all I've given you, this is how you show your fucking appreciation for me?"