scars.

autumn is my name.

    "Summer."
    That's always the first thing they say.

    "Spring."
    Most likely the next.

    "Winter."
    Only if you ask a die-hard grandma, or a little kid who loves building sloppy snowmen.

    Never do they say, "Autumn. That's my favourite season."

    And why would they? When it's rainy, misty... when nature slowly rots away? I couldn't love autumn even if you'd pay me for it.

    Maybe that's why I could never love myself.

    It was a stupid name. I hated it, more than you could imagine. Sometimes, when I was feeling very sorry for myself, I blamed it all on the name. Of course I could never have a cheerful, blooming life, when I was literally named after the time of the year that kills most parts of nature, and with it, all happiness.

That's why people never want to be around me, I said to myself time and time again. But I wasn't good enough of an actress to convince myself.

    Here's the thing: something was absolutely wrong with me. I knew it. For sure.

    I could see it in the way my mom's eyes glinted angrily at the sight of me, or the mocking faces my younger brother made during dinner. I could hear it in the whispers of my classmates, the stares pouring into my skin, I could see it in the way teachers would ignore my hand, as if I were too stupid to comprehend their question.

I could feel it in the way he breathed roughly in my ear, his nails digging into my skin, the red stripes on my back like a Mondrian painting.

    And most of all, I could see it in the way the corners of my mouth unwillingly turned downward into an unintended snarl when I looked in the mirror, the way my eyes squinted disapprovingly, and how I had to look away before it would shatter.

    I didn't mean the mirror.

    I meant me.

    It was cold in here, and dark. The taste of blood in my mouth. I didn't even know if it had been him, or if I had bitten down on my lip too hard. A shiver ran through me, another desperate intake of breath. Everything in here always smelled like burned out cigarettes and gasoline mixed with my own sweat.

    I ran my fingers up and down my shoulders. My collarbones seemed to poke right through my skin. He had done a good job keeping me skinny for his videos.

    I gagged as my tongue remembered the taste of him. For how long would this continue? I was alive, but only barely.

    Sometimes I wished he would just end it already.

    Passing cars in the distance. I wondered if they could hear me when I screamed. They wouldn't get here fast enough anyway.

    So much silence. It had been silent here for the past few days, except for my own ragged breathing and the sound of my footsteps as I walked up and down the rather scarcely furnished room.

    I didn't hate silence that much. Silence meant he wasn't home. Silence meant he didn't want anything from me. Silence meant I was safe.

    Then, a knock on the door.