Blair O'Connor was the life of every party-popular, fearless, and always the center of attention. But behind the perfect image was an abusive boyfriend who slowly stripped away the girl she used to be.
After finally breaking free, Blair transfers...
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I blinked, trying to clear the fog clouding my vision, but everything felt hazy, like I was trying to piece together a dream. My head pounded, a dull, throbbing ache that spread through my temples and down my neck. I lay there for a moment, feeling the weight of the sheets over my body. Slowly, I realized I wasn't wearing anything. My skin prickled as I became fully aware that I was naked, alone in my bed, and I couldn't remember how I'd gotten here.
The last thing I remembered clearly was being in the here with Connor. The argument—the shouting, my anger and fear bubbling up as I tried to confront him, and then... the water. I had felt dizzy, faint, like my mind was slipping, and he'd offered me that glass of water. I'd taken it without thinking, too exhausted, too overwhelmed to question anything. But after that, everything was blank, a dark void where memories should have been.
A chill ran down my spine as I sat up slowly, clutching the sheets to my chest, my hands trembling. I tried to force myself to remember—anything, any fragment of what had happened after I drank the water—but nothing came. The silence of the room felt suffocating, pressing in on me, and my pulse quickened as I glanced around, searching for something that would ground me, something that would make sense of this.
But there was nothing.
My body felt weak as I made my way to the bathroom, my legs unsteady beneath me. I turned the faucet, letting the bath fill up with scalding hot water, steam rising up and fogging the mirror. I caught a glimpse of myself, and a fresh wave of dread washed over me.
Bruises. They were scattered across my skin like reminders I couldn't erase. Some were faded, yellowed with age, while others were fresh, dark and angry. I could barely recognize myself. I traced the marks with trembling fingers, each touch sending a spark of shame deep into my bones.
A lump formed in my throat, but I forced it down. I couldn't cry. I couldn't give in to this feeling clawing its way through me. Because what would that change? Who could I even tell? The thought of people knowing—of seeing their faces, their pity, or worse, their disgust—it made my stomach twist. I felt trapped, but part of me whispered that I belonged here, that this was my fault.
Lowering myself into the bath, I felt the hot water sear my skin, but I welcomed the burn. I took a washcloth and began to scrub, hard and unrelenting, dragging it across every bruise, every inch of skin. I scrubbed until my skin was raw and red, until the water stung and my arms ached. I wanted to erase it all—every bruise, every memory—but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't scrub it away.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands sinking to my sides, defeated. I was trapped, and as much as I hated it, I couldn't leave. I couldn't tell anyone. Who would understand? What would they think of me if they knew I'd stayed?
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A couple of hours later, I heard the front door open, the familiar sound of Connor's footsteps echoing through the hallway. My whole body tensed as I sat there, trying to focus on the rhythm of my own breathing, reminding myself to stay calm, to keep my expression steady. If I acted happy, if I could just pretend well enough, then maybe it would be fine. Maybe this feeling twisting in my chest would just disappear.
I heard him call out, his voice echoing through the quiet apartment, "Blair? You here?"
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stand up, my muscles still aching from the bath. I tried to push every doubt, every memory of the night before, to the back of my mind as I walked out to meet him, a weak smile plastered on my face.
"Hey," I said, my voice soft, as though everything was normal, as though I wasn't still feeling the weight of bruises beneath my clothes. "You're back."
Connor looked at me with a slight smile, but there was something guarded in his eyes. He stepped closer, reaching out to brush a piece of hair behind my ear. "You seem quiet," he said, his tone casual, almost caring. "You okay?"
I forced myself to nod, keeping my expression as blank as I could. "Just... tired, that's all." My voice was calm, controlled, the mask slipping into place as naturally as breathing. "It was a long night."
He watched me closely, his hand lingering for a second too long before he let go. "Well, try to cheer up, yeah?" he said, his voice taking on that familiar, subtly controlling tone. "People notice when you look like that."
The implication was clear, and I felt a pang of panic rise in my chest. He wanted me to pretend, to be the version of myself that he approved of. I could see it in his eyes—a warning not to let the mask slip. So I nodded, forcing my smile a bit wider.
"Of course," I whispered. "I'm fine. Really."
No one would talk to me or look too closely if I kept the smile on, if I played my part well enough. No one would suspect a thing. And maybe, if I could just keep pretending, I'd start to believe it too.
— — — — — — — A/N. IM SORRY ABOUT ALL THE CONNOR I RLLY AM LOVELYS. - Lia 💋.
