Gotham's New Bird | T. Drake

Chapter 9 *TW*

***TW IF YOU HAVE ANYTHING THAT RELATES TO SELF HARM THAT MIGHT TRIGGER SOMETHING, SKIP THIS CHAPTER. IT'S MERELY A FLASHBACK. I HAVE NO INTENTION ON OFFENDING ANYONE.***

Chapter 9

Silence. That was all she heard. It made her panic. She needed to hear something. Not just the beat of her own heart, hearing her pulse seem deafening in the soundless place.

She screamed, trying to make some type of noise, but there was no sound. It was all silent.

It scared her. It reminded her of her past, so young and dumb. So alone, too. After he was finished with her, he'd leave her to her own trailer, naked and cold on the floor. So numb, yet so raw and in pain at the same time. She wanted to cry, to feel, but she couldn't. She wanted to know if she was still alive on the inside.

So she resorted to blades. No, not on her wrists. That's where anyone could see them. It was along her upper thighs and hips and waist. Sometimes under her breasts. But only if she was feeling bad enough.

Every time that he would pound her raw, every time he saw her naked, every time he saw more long slits along her body, he would stay longer. It showed him she could withstand more pain. He would screw her for hours on end after performances. And every time he left, she would lay defeated until she worked up enough energy to hurt herself.

She always hid the blades under the mattress so there weren't any suspicions when they were found. She almost always sterilized and cleaned the area beforehand. Then she grew sloppy. Blades would rust; she wouldn't care. She showered less. Her trailer grew messy. She had nearly no appetite.

But he didn't care. If anything, that was better. It made it easier for him. So much easier. Every time, she put up less and less of a fight. He loved it. He loved it so much that he, too, grew sloppy. He began staying the night. He turned most of his attention to her instead of the other girls. He'd screw her senseless, then wake her up and do it all over again before practices or performances.

Whenever he was with another girl, she'd lock her door and hurt herself. She wanted to die at this point. She didn't want to live like a plaything for this monster. Her scars soon turned to art and she feared less and less of going deeper until she hit something. She felt lightheaded. No. She couldn't let Haly down. Not like this. She barely made it to unlocking her door before stumbling to the hard asphalt in only her underwear and bra. She whimpered when she attempted to stand, but fell again, her knees skidding against the dampening pavement. She tried to call for help, but it came out as a whisper. Her vision was swimming and she felt dizzy. She slowly stumbled to the nearest trailer and slapped her bloody palms on it half a dozen times. She cried out, causing her to lose energy. She dropped to the ground again, tears slowly forming.

She knew this was it. It was in the middle of the night. No way she would make it until morning. Her vision soon began to blur. She crawled over to the stairs of the trailer, not caring about the pavement scraping her up, and slammed herself into the door. The metal was cool on her sweaty skin as she dreadfully rested on it to regain energy. The door was flung open and one of the aerialists spotted her. He cried out for help, running back in and grabbing some old clothes for her. The man's wife came to see what the fuss was about and shrieked, grabbing her phone and calling the authorities. The husband lifted the girl up gingerly, rivulets of blood running around to her back, where it ran off in a steady stream. Blood soaked her panties and bra, dying them dark red, almost black. He tore an old gray shirt in half to tie it around her torso, which was where the blood seemed to come from. But then it was her legs and arms, as well. He did his best to tie the cloth tightly around the wounds. He needed to save this girl. Haly loved her like a daughter.