Bruises ~ In editing

~1~

Trigger warning. Intense violence and abusive scene ahead. If you don't wish to read, skip to the other line below.

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Standing beside the table, I stare blankly ahead as laughter fills the room. Slurred speech and the scent of our most expensive wine and fire-whiskey makes my head spin.

Everyone seated is laughing at a joke my foster father made, and I don't know whether they're laughing because it was funny, or they're afraid of what he might do to them if they don't.

I keep my hands crossed in front of me, not daring to move or speak unless spoken to. I stare straight ahead like a statue, my shoulders squared back and my eyes straight forward when I hear a tap on a glass.

"Make yourself useful and fill this for me, would you Ivy?" the drunk man says in slurred tongue.

I groan inwardly at the stupid nickname they all call me, but I wouldn't dare let it show as I fill his glass up again with fire-whiskey.

He looks back over at me, suddenly hostile as he says, "Now get away from me."

As I turn, he places his hand on the back of my head and shoves me away hard.

I don't flinch, just continue walking as I place the bottle on the small counter table and return to my stoic position.

I continue to stare straight ahead, all the voices becoming white noise until I feel a liquid thrown into my face.

I feel my eyes burn and try to blink the pain away, shaking in my position in fear as the man stands, "Are you trying to kill me?! This tastes like piss-water!"

His long, bleach blonde hair is ruffled now, sweat on his brow from obvious drunkenness.

I slightly shrink away, barely noticeably as he slams the glass onto the floor. It shatters, shards flying across the hard wood, cutting my exposed legs in my formal, short black dress.

"Get on your hands and knees and clean it up."

I hesitate for a moment, my fear in the moment stopping me from reacting instantly.

"NOW!" he screams, slamming his open palm on the wall beside my head.

My arms are shaking as I bend down to pick up the glass, but the man grabs my shoulders and shoves me to my knees. I feel the glass stab deep into my skin and I almost wince before I silence myself. If I cry or show pain, they'll only get enjoyment out of it and make it worse. I begin to scoop the glass into my hands and throw it in the trash can to my left.

The man smirks and stalks back to his chair as I scoop the glass up into my now bleeding hands. Once I've thrown all the glass into the can I grab a rag and wipe my blood up off the floor. As I go into the laundry room and rinse the blood out of the rag, I start to pull the glass pieces from my hands until I hear screaming.

"Get your ass back in here!" my foster father yells, smirking as I come in, the rag in my bloody, glass filled hands.

"Refill my drink," he says cooly, smirking as he holds it out to me.

I take it from his hands painfully as the glass is pushed into my skin. I take it to the small counter, setting it down and filling it quickly.

I turn and bring it back to him, setting it down on the table. When he sees the blood on the glass, he turns to me, "Wipe it off."

I use the rag to quickly but carefully wipe off the glass.

He smirks at me the entire time, watching me as I push it softly towards him.

He goes to lift the glass, a smirk still plastered on his cheeks when the glass slips from his hand.

I watch in shock, like the time has frozen as it falls in seemingly slow motion all over the front of his expensive suit coat.

His eyes widen and everyone at the table stops as the fire-whiskey spills all over his front side.

He pushes himself up, his chair falling back and slamming to the ground as he rushes me, grabbing the collar of my dress, "How dare you?! This suit costs more than your life! I ought to beat you to death in front of everyone!"

My eyes widen in fear as he drags me away, me choking and coughing, begging for help in the process.

I see the malicious looks of those at the party, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the same tattoo imprinted on their left arm.

A tattoo that I've become all too familiar with.

I watch in fear as the room slips away and I'm thrown onto the floor of the kitchen.

I catch myself with my hands and cry out as the glass pierces into my skin deeper.

I want to look away, want to run as I hear Darius pull off his belt, holding it tightly in his large, calloused hands.

I hold my breath, knowing what's coming as the belt lashes onto my back.

Hot tears sting my cheeks as searing pain splits on my back.

I feel it again, another, and another, and another as he grunts with each strike, hitting harder with each one.

I feel blood seep into my dress as the lashes split, leaving my already scarred back more mangled and broken.

Once he's done, he grabs the belt near his hand, sliding his thumb and forefinger down the length on opposite sides, wiping the blood off and slinging it onto the floor as he shakes his hand.

"Clean this mess up, or I'll kill you in front of everyone," he says, stalking silently out of the room into the dining room, blood still on his pale fingers.

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I feel the tears in my eyes and force myself not to wipe them away, knowing I would only get blood on my face.

I push myself up off the ground painfully as I grab a mop, cleaning my blood off the white tiled floor.

As I am mopping, I hear many loud cracks as the Death Eaters Disapparate from the dining room.

Once finished mopping, I enter the dining room, seeing our small house elf, Lolry, trying to grab the dishes.

My heart sinks too my knees, seeing him try and clean the room. I walk over to him and lean down, whispering, "It's best if you aren't in here Lolry, it's not safe here for you. Go dust the living room, act as though you never saw any of this."

From the fear in his eyes, I knew he had seen everything. He nods his head in thanks and hurries from the room, away from the large mess.

I spend about an hour cleaning the room, finding gloves to do the dishes so I don't get soap in my hands or blood on the ceramics, then wiping all the bottles of my blood from holding them.

I sigh as I finally make my way to the bathroom to rid myself of the glass.

Once I'm there, I find a pair of tweezers, pulling the shards painfully from my skin. I grit my teeth as I pull them out, throwing them into the trash can. Once finished I clean them off and pull off my clothes. I step into the shower, turning on lukewarm water so I don't burn my cuts. I turn the shower head to soften the water pressure as I let the water run down my back, both pain and relief filling me as I sigh softly.

At 16 years old, the strongest witch in my year, I never thought this would still be happening to me.

I let the water run off my blood as I stand, not crying, holding it all in as I shake my head.

"I can get through this. Hogwarts is in 3 days. I can do this. I'll just wear gloves."

I try to convince myself everything will be okay, but I feel a few tears slide down my cheeks as I realize nothing will be okay...