Shattered Pieces

3 Years Ago

  I lay on my bed, crying and sore. My face felt numb and swollen, blood smeared my upper lip and chin.
  I don't quite remember what happened to me that night, wouldn't want to anyway. I was naked, I remembered that much, cold in the autumn air. I'd wished that I hadn't been born and that I would die. Nothing had changed much about those thoughts.
  My stomach and ribs were coloured in bruises. Despite the blood, my face was uninjured save for the bruised nose. They would heal in a few days. He made sure of that, always sure to avoid giving me visible marks. It was Thursday, Friday was a holiday, there was plenty of time for my wounds to heal. That was if he left me alone for the remainder of the weekend.
  I got up. I sat on my bed and looked out my window. I loved to count the stars, to see how high the number could get before I got confused. It was something my father and I always did together. I missed him.
  Pushing his memory from my head, I walked on aching feet to the vanity across the room.
  My room was an innocent Alice blue, the colour that filled the walls and covered my bed. The desk by the window was covered in turquoise and white polka-dotted wrapping paper. The fluttering drapes were white lace. The rest of the furniture in the room were white and light grey including the dresser, bed frame, vanity and towering closet.
  The colours had an innocent feel to them, so I supposed he chose them to hide the horror that occurred within their confines.
  I shrugged on the soft silken robe draped on the back of the chair and tied the knot. The surface of the vanity was hidden almost entirely by bottles, cases and vials. Makeup was my best friend growing up with the reoccurring violence. I learned to use it to hide the worst of the scars, the darkest of bruises and the brightest of the redness. 
  Pulling out more than a few of the wet wipes, I dragged them across my face. The blood smeared more before finally falling away. The bridge of my nose was a yellow patch, soon it would be a blossoming violet-purple. I tossed the red stained tissues into the bin.
  I looked into my reflected eyes as my fingers found the brush. The oily paste smeared my puffy pink skin, left stripes of pale on my face. My hand moved in careful light movements, perfectly honed from years of practice. Blotchy pink patches of skin blended into a pale glow. Replacing my foundation brush with a rosy lipstick, I painted the tacky pink stain onto my cracked lips. Mascara and eyeshadow followed later on.
  When I was done, I looked into the mirror. The girl there was sad, frowning. The corners of her mouth sunk downwards, weighed down by secrets to big to share. I could only hide what was done to me, couldn't imagine the punishment if I should tell. So I hid, I hid it well.
  I looked at my reflection.
  And I smiled.