Just A Psycho

Dead end.

Her 4-year-old body was sprawled on an untidy blanket, eyes wide, heart trying to escape her chest.

It is happening.

Rapid kiss of mortification, calloused hands of degradation, her innocence was snatched faster than the flutter of eyes.

She was used.

Yet her mouth was sealed.

Fast forward and her 8-year-old mind was lead by the gentle touch of a man she knows so well as a child. Hands intertwined going to a promised safe place.

Innocent mind went blank, blood runs cold, breathing stops.

Gentle hands tugged her dress upwards, pulling her princess pink undies down, penetrating her hidden gem as pain and disbelief rendered her staring helplessly; immobile.

She was used. Again. With a threat to keep her mouth sealed once more.

She left the city, taking the risk towards unfamiliarity to escape her horrible past with a will to find safety.

5 years later she begrudgingly takes an oath to keep her secret buried. Believing that five years of pseudo safety means enough.

Yet she found herself sprawled on her own bed, another man licking her already deteriorated flesh; trust sent her to another terrible experience.

She was used... Not even a fresh news.

She was alive. She survived. Her body did. But her mind, heart, and soul was a dying ember which was slowly fading away to existence. Pain lived in her heart, thoughts tortured her mind, her soul is turning to ashes.

She is a dead girl; walking, smiling, talking--emptily.

Another five years had passed, she became a woman. Hoping for salvation, dreaming of a safe haven.

Yet history repeats itself as the man she considered kin attacked her with fervent kisses of urgent desire. Eradicating her barely noticeable hope.

Another man she called best friend took advantage of her, it killed her dream.

She was dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Yet everyone expects her to live and thrive so she did. She tried. She strived. She make-believe.

Later on, she found these people who sparked a newfound will inside her unfeeling heart. People who carry her secrets and treasure her scars to a new battle for herself.

Weeks later, her constant nemesis gave a final blow.

One of these people used her foolishness for the nth time maybe not sexually yet the impact was greater than any she had received.

Her trust was betrayed.

Her world topples down, collapsing in front of her very eyes. Her knees weak, her heart shattering, her soul nowhere to be seen.

Trust is a fretful little thing. 

Maybe it is the person whom we trusted is the one we must call fretful.

One mental breakdown, two bottles of gin over tears and painful recollection, her last ounce of sanity was taken.

How much more?

She was a dead woman who died multiple times.

Maybe some more times.

Maybe it won't stop.

And maybe, the only hope for her salvation, the pathway towards her dream haven is to simply pull the trigger and blow her head.

Dead. End.