Bloody Fingers, Broken Mind

T R A P P E D

TRIGGER WARNING: contains content of rape, abuse, and suicidal thoughts.

My fingers were wrapped around the handle of my brush as I gently and slowly ran it through the soft strands of my hair. The feeling of the bristles gliding along my scalp was like a massage by hundreds of little plastic hands, causing me to let my eyes fall shut.

It was almost 11:00. I should have really been getting to bed right about then, but I decided to get a late shower so I wouldn't have to get an early one in the morning.

In the end, I think I should have gotten a morning one considering the events that were about to happen. It all fell apart like a domino effect. One moment I was calmly brushing out my fresh soft brown hair, the next filled with panic as my brush clattered to the floor as the footsteps pounded up the stairs. I made a ran for my door in a desperate pointless attempt to prevent what was about to happen.

The door swung open, hitting me in the ribs, knocking me back. I screamed in a combination of pain and panic. I had it all set in my head. The three P's.

Panic.
Pain.
Peace.

The panic filled when he got home and his footsteps broke the silence of my loneliness in this empty house, his heavy boots sounding like a herd of a thousand beasts when it was merely one.

The pain occurred when he made it to my room. He would beat me; hitting me, punching me, kicking me. Anything he could think of to incapacitate me. The blows would seem unending. Then it would continue when he would force himself onto me, his calloused fingers wrapped around my pale thin wrists, leaving bruises their wake while he pinned my upper body to the bed. My lower body continued to fight as I tried to land as many blows to him as I could. Eventually my feeble attempts would be put to an end as he would begin to undress me. More pain followed as he had his way with me.

Then finally the peace came when he finished and left me alone with the fresh bruises tainting my skin and sinful blood seeping into my sheets. I would cry, but quietly and not for long. I didn't want to anger him further. Though when I thought of it, I never did anything to anger him in the beginning.

The peace was in the quiet I was left alone in. I would get up, take a bath this time, and not waste a second of the feeling when my sore body lowered into the hot, almost scolding water. This was the peace I was given after the panic and the pain. This peace was the only thing keeping me from lowering my head under the water and inhaling the deepest breath I could manage.