Ms winters

Dum spiro, spero.

                                               *

The bathroom door felt heavier than usual as Isadora  pushed it open, the weight of the sleepless night making her every movement sluggish. The room was dim, the pale morning light filtering weakly through the small frosted window, casting in it a cold, greyish hue. The young blonde didn't bother turning the light to life, she wasn't sure she could handle the stark brightness, the harsh reality it would reveal.

Making her way towards the body mirror in the corner of the room with slow, deliberate steps, her breath catching in her throat . The girl in the reflection looked like someone who she hadn't recognised - battered, bruised, but still standing, still breathing.

Isadora stared at herself, trying to connect with the image in front of her eyes, but all she felt was a numb detachment, as if her mind had already drifted somewhere far away, leaving her body a unstable vessel.

Swelling on her right cheek was the first thing she noticed, a deep angry purple that spread beneath her eye, wincing as her fingers grazed the tender skin. A small cut at the edge of her eyebrow had scabbed over, but the skin around it red throbbing with every heartbeat.

Her lips were dry, cracked, the lower one split down the middle. Remembering the taste of blood, the metallic tang that had filled her mouth as she bit down, forcing herself to stay quiet, to endure. Delaneys words still echoed in her head, sharp and cutting, each one a knife twisted deeper into her soul.

But it was her hands that drew her gaze downward shaking slightly fingers involuntarily twitching as if reliving the nights horrors on their own. The skin on her fingertips was rough, raw with tiny cuts from the shards of glass, the young blonde flexed her fingers testing the rage of motion just enough to feel the tightness of her skin.

The glass had left its mark, not just in the cuts, but in the way her hands ached, deep in the bones, as if the fragments had found a way to embed themselves beneath her skin.

With a hesitant movement Isadora steps in the small shower her body screaming out in protest vision blurring as she lets the water flow over her hands, arms, legs , ribs, everything stinging leaving her whimpering she slowly reached for the shower gel and loofah scrubbing at the skin till it took on a reddish glow contrast to the bitter cold water, needing to feel something anything, needing to feel clean. To wash herself of sin. To wash herself of her mother's rage her hands and legs. To be clean of the one who caused her pain.

Not much time passed as she wraps the towel around her figure cringing at its texture against the delicate skin. Breath hitched as she reached for the baby pink hoodie draped over the chair, the fabric soft, worn from years of use, a comfort she desperately needed. But even lifting it was a struggle, her fingers barely able to grasp the material without trembles rippling through her.

Sliding over her shoulders, the familiar weight of it settling around her forming a shield, hiding the worse of the bruising. The range of colours behind the soft material.

Picking up the sweatpants she repeated the action the jolts of sudden pain running up her arms with every touch of material against the cuts. Each tug, each adjustment was a reminder of the consequences shes faced.

Isadora with cautious steps walks in front of her mirror, the blondes face a canvas of imperfections. She picks up a brush, dipping it in foundation coating her pale skin with a layer of colour. Covering the dark circles under her honey eyes and up her cheekbones to the angry bruising. A thin layer of blush was next adding a rosy glow to her cheeks making her look softer...mascara and eyeliner. The mask of makeup slowly took shape on her face, hiding the harsh reality behind it. The process was tedious, time consuming but the young blonde forced herself all through it, applying the product with a practiced hand and topped it off with a Matt colour to her soft pink lips trying to hide the cut there.