Azura woke from the familiar nightmare when the front door slammed shut. She knew what was coming. She knew her aunt was probably drunk. She knew she would be more violent. Pulling the covers over her thin frame and squeezing her eyes shut, the small girl tried to feign sleep. She breathed quickly, shakily, as the sound of Rose's footsteps paused in front of her door. She heard the doorknob turn, then the door creak open. They started again, growing louder as she came closer.
The footsteps stopped abruptly. There was a moment of silence before a hand wrapped around her arm. Azura was pulled from the safety of her bed, cerulean eyes meeting a pair of dull hazel ones. "Stupid brat," she spat. "you're just like your mother." Her hand met the skin of Azura's cheek in a harsh smack. "Same dead eyes," tears welled up in them, "wicked smile," lips trembled, "pale skin," dark bruises formed, "just like her." Azura didn't bother fighting back; she sat there and took her beating, one she felt she deserved.
When Auntie Rose left her room, Azura stood up and walked over to the full-length mirror nailed to her door. The room was fairly dark, but she could still see the dark marks that contrasted her light skin. She winced quietly as she touched her reddened cheek. Little fingers trailed down soft skin, tracing along the edges of the violet marks.
The pain didn't faze her anymore. In fact, part of her looked forward to these nights. At least Rose would pay attention to her like this. She longed to tell someone about the bruises, but she was afraid. It was better to be quiet than alone. This was better than being alone. Anything is better than being alone, right?
YOU ARE READING
The Untitled Azura Project
Short StoryHow long does it take for a picked flower to die? Azura Fleur is a young lady from Grand Rapids with a history of abusive loved ones and a knack for finding the wrong coping mechanisms. Without a decent role model, how will she ever learn clean up h...
