Not So Delicate ||18+|| ✔️

Brooklyn ~58~

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of gore, blood, mentions of self-harm.

IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE CONTENTS, PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

The world was quiet.

Such an odd feeling, to have the sun on your skin but feel like you're sinking into the cold depths of the ocean.

My body felt like it was being weighed down by every sin my soul had committed, too far deep to repent.

My world felt like it had shriveled up and died. My heart no longer beat with pride against my ribs. And my lungs refused to welcome the warm air.

I don't know what happened yesterday when the men came for me. It was all a blur. I'm pretty sure I was unconscious the whole ride to... wherever this was. It wasn't home, I knew that much.

My body felt numb. The air around me felt brittle. I don't know where we are and how we got here, I just want to go home.

Joshua is dead. But his face still lives in my brain. It hurt just thinking of him. I was practically paralyzed from the waist down now. The pain was so much that I couldn't even move my legs. Every time I tried, I could feel something popping open down there. I've been awake for about an hour now, just staring at the bland wall.

The sound of the bullet breaking through his skull made me clench my eyes shut. Then there was the sound of something wet hitting the floor like water. A groan, a thump, and then silence. The silence was only disturbed by the faint sound of bullets, my rapidly beating heart, and his blood sputtering. It didn't kill him right away. It took a while before he could die.

I hope he felt the pain.

I didn't see how he looked when I shot him, but my mind decided to paint a vivid image for me. I remember when I accidentally stumbled across a video of a man shooting his cousin in the head. I was too scared to click off the video, my eyes forced me to continue watching. That's how I imagined his death. 

I sigh and open my eyes, staring at the wall that mocked me.

My scars ached as if they had been reopened. They burned into my skin to remind me of everything.

The pain of cutting them open had always brought me a sort of peace. Maybe I was sick in the head. But I always thought that by cutting them open myself, I would be scarred by my own hand and not by his.

I stopped doing it when Milo found me passed out in the bathroom from the loss of blood. He had held me the whole night until I woke up and then some. Then he cried and begged me to stop, he begged me with so much pain in his voice that it still hurts my heart to even remember it.

My back was killing me from being laid on it for so long. I'm in no way, shape, or form a back sleeper. I wanted to roll over but the pain between my legs stopped me from doing so.

I heard a small knock on the door before it opened. I tilt my head to the side, looking at who walked in. Zachary walked in quietly, his eyes on the tray of food he brought. Walking slowly to not spill whatever was on it. He hadn't noticed I was awake yet, trying to be as quiet as he could to not 'wake' me.

Once he had the tray set down, he turned to look at me, making me close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I felt the bed dip slightly and a gentle touch against my cheek. The touch moved to gently run over the bridge of my nose, then up to my forehead.

I heard him mutter something under his breath but I couldn't make out what he was saying. His fingers touched the short end of my hair, gently moving it away from my neck.