The Dead Her.

Chapter 3

Her parents stumble drunkenly through the door, barely able to walk in a straight line. They're seeing double, maybe even triple, her, and it frustrates them.

"Why are there more you's?! We didn't want one of you in the first place!" The glass bottle shatters beside her head.

Screaming, she runs to her room. She locks the door quick, but not quite fast enough... Her mother grips her hair, and she rips chunks out at a time. She screams and cries, begging and pleading her to stop.

Shes not screaming because it hurts, shes screaming because the monsters in her head are dancing, having a grand time as shes suffering. Their shoes stab into her brain, sending dreadful thoughts to her memory like a needle with heroine to a blood vessel.

"You'll be home quite soon, darling. Hang in there." They chant. Their voices have become almost soothing.

Parents that reek of alcohol slur their words, angry that she can't understand, though they're speaking the only language they have ever known. Their daughter stray not far from the leash, but wanting and praying that she'll be let go soon; be free again. The free she felt whenever the blade slid gracefully down her arm, or the flame stinging her arm as it darkens in color.