Deflower

Chapitre Douze

TRIGGER WARNING: ABUSE.

Lo didn't trust men. Not anymore. Not after she had deemed Kyle a—sort of—friend of hers and had been sorely mistaken; she should have known that she, pure—like a Bambi, doe-eyed and with no wrongful intentions— would only come to play the role of prey to I someone like him, and that perhaps, she should have believed in the badmouthing of the inhabitants; they were right. Kyle Garçia lived up to his reputation, and Lourdes Guerrero, to be honest, did not want to see him ever again. Not even if he fell to his knees and prayed for forgiveness—which was something Lo deemed highly unlikely, too. Gods don't get on their knees—their victims do.

Nonetheless, just as nonexistent was her fate in women— when she had awoken that very morning, from her deathlike slumber, gasping as though her lungs no longer did as they were naturally assigned, it was not because she was terrified or had those gruesome contemplations of what had happened the evening before, with Kyle, but because her mother had yanked her hair, harshly, and pulled her from her bed, taking the soft, linen sheets along with her small body. The pain was a sharp reminder but it didn't hurt. Not anymore, at last. It was a reminder of the many times that her mama had hurt her; it did not physically hurt her, not anymore, but mentally, it ravaged her. It destroyed her, that her mama took pleasure in hurting her.

All she could see from under her thick lashes were her mother's large eyes— like an angel of death, they were filled with fury, and foresaw nothing of a very positive genre. The tension between them was tangible and Lourdes felt herself growing nauseous; bile rose up within her throat and it felt as though her very own harborer of death had sprung within her stomach, stabbing her time after time (after time, after time) with the grandest blade within his eager grasp. She pinned her large eyes— if possible, those brown ones were even bigger than her mother's enraged ones, at that moment— upon the bellflowers that were placed atop her nightstand. Purity. It's what floods her mind. The pigtails she wore once, the plaid skirts she possessed of, the rainbow that decorated the sky at its earliest of the day, the teardrop that had already cascaded down her delicate skin as her mother smirked deviously.

Lourdes was pulled to her feet and she winced to herself— to herself. She did it silently, so her mother could not hear. She did not permit her of having the pleasure of knowing that she was in pain. Mother Guerrero's eyes did not tear up when they took sight of the manner that Lo's face crumbled up slightly, with pain. No, they radiated amusement. It filled the void that she had previously attempted to fill with every handsome face she encountered, anyone that showed her the slightest bit of affection that she lacked of with her husband. You see, the handsome faces no longer looked her way— rather, Lourdes'. And that was the problem at hand.

Mother Guerrero had once been a beautiful woman. A sophisticated woman with a dainty cigarette behind her ear and beauty even overshadowing the scantily amount of her sisters; her sister, simply, had to undress to be found appealing. She, she was a natural— much like her daughter—, with a pretty face and a smile that made the stars out to be more than blasé. She was the type of woman that appeared to be a trap; one boys fell within with open eyes. She was a rose amidst a field of daisies and a cherry amongst mere apples; the sweetest of the most dulcet and the best of the best. Mother Guerrero was enigmatic, paralyzing, and most of all, irresistible. But now, she was exactly that— a mother. She had lost her youthfulness a long time ago, but it was now her daughter whom had to suffer for it; it was her blood she bathed in in order to regain what once made her so outrageously beautiful.

Lourdes' long, luscious tresses of dark hair were tightly gripped between her thin fingers. Brows knit together and they formed a thorough frown per she was pulled along with her mother, down the grand staircase. Lourdes' small posture found shelter— rather harshly— against the vast wall of her home, merely seconds after her mama had thrown her dainty body a few steps off the staircase, and her face fell in everlasting pain; growing a few shades paler than otherwise, she tugged at her wrists until the warm crimson eloped from her flesh. Her mother's high-pitched voice uttered towards her whilst smoke protruded from her parted lips but she could not focus on her mama's words; instead, it was everlasting nostalgia she drowned herself in. Her mother's hands made abrupt contact with the—already reddened, merely from crying— flesh of her cheeks, but only the never ending voice of a stranger repeated itself in her head: Soon, soon, soon,...