Cold Blood

❥Chapter Thirty-seven❥

Written by ChemicalWonderland

Ash POV

Childhood memory

I'm hunched over on the cold basement floor, shivering uncontrollably. My tattered clothes do nothing to protect me from the cold. My spine is rigid against the back wall, purplish-blue bruises decorating my skin like paint. My breathing is labored and heavy from having been stabbed twice in the stomach a few hours ago. The blood has stopped spilling over my long, pale fingers, now only crusty brownish-red blood remains. The wounds are sure to be infected, clean straight lines in my side that cut deep, stinging sharply every time I move. I tried to make the wounds not so bad by pressing my now vividly crimson shirt onto the cuts, desperately hoping to stop the blood flow. But it did little, and I was left to watch the thick liquid ooze from my body for what felt like an eternity, staring at the puddles that formed and the metallic scent in the air.

I'm now left feeling drained of energy and exhausted. Too afraid to lay down because of the pain in my torso, I simply lean my head back on the wall and attempt to close my eyelids. As soon as I'm encapsulated by peaceful, solid black, creaking footsteps sound on the stairs. My eyes instantly shoot open.

In the open doorway flooded with dim, sickly yellow light, stands a figure swathed in black, their long hair the only telling sign of who it is. My mother steps into my prison slowly and methodically, a familiar smile plastered onto her face, kind of like the smile of a man who wishes to lure children into his van with the offer of candy. Her eyes glint darkly, the eyes of me, and the eyes of my father.

"Hello sweetheart," she drawls out in her fake motherly way, tilting her head to the side and looking down on me.

I give her a sharp glare in my head, too scared to do so in real life. I can picture the intensity in my own emerald irises boring into hers like if I stared at her long enough I could tear her apart.

"You look like a mess," she says tauntingly, as if I've just been playing out in the mud instead of being stabbed by her. She made me a mess.

I don't respond, not trusting myself to keep calm if I do answer. Punishments are always harsher when I retaliate.

She wags her pointer finger at me, wrinkles appearing between her thin blonde eyebrows. "Now that just won't do," she declares. "No son of mine will go around looking like that! It's time for a bath!"

Her words register with my body before my mind, limbs instinctively going cold and numb, heart picking up its pace, tense and ready to run. But I can only run into her arms.

She steps toward me without another word, grabbing at my left arm and yanking me to my feet. Pain shoots through my arm and laces through the rest of my body, pulling at the skin surrounding my cuts. I bite back a cry, tears springing up in my eyes. I force myself to keep a blank expression, standing up straight and tall no matter how badly my body screams at me to stop. I realize then that I'm towering over her, able to see above her incredibly short frame. It gives me a sense of power, but also a sense of weakness, knowing that, regardless of height, she still has more control over everything than I do or ever will.

Pulling me toward the staircase with rapid speed, she pays no mind to the fact that I drag behind her languidly. We reach the top of the stairs in seconds, her hand in a vice-like grip on my arm. Spots like miniture fireworks suddenly explode in front of my eyes, caused by the sudden exposure to natural daylight. I blink away the fuzzy spots until I can see fairly well again, quickly scanning the strikingly familiar kitchen in front of me.

Everything is immaculate and in place. The countertops are spotless, the kitchen supplies neatly organized or tucked away perfectly. There's even a fresh bouquet of colorful flowers resting on the island. A small window above the sink lets in sparkling sunlight, highlighting the dust-free, glossy floors.