The Scars of Six

4. Demands

A/N: Hey guys! 

Alright so... In the next chapters you guys will meet the rest of the characters and get to know some of their stories! 

Stay tuned, the action is just chapters away from happening! 

Listen to Lovely By Billie Eilish Ft. Khalid while reading this chapter. 

Also let me know how you guys are liking this story so far!

xoxo Izzy 

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It had been approximately two weeks since my encounter with Mr. Hunter. I had been taken to a safe house in the outskirts of the city. I was told that I needed time to think and to digest all the information I had been given that night. I was told that by the end of this isolation period I would get initiated into the team. After that night I texted my friends, told them I was fine and how sorry I was that I couldn't make it, but I had a family emergency to tend to out of town. They bought it and that was the end of that. 

I can honestly say that I hated the fact that I had to be alone these two weeks. I didn't want to be by myself, I couldn't sleep and I couldn't eat. Flashbacks to the gruesome pictures that I saw kept creeping around in my brain. The forensic report echoing in my mind, taunting me. I was completely shattered. I didn't know how to feel, I didn't know a lot of things at the moment. I felt like that twelve year old little girl who was clueless about everything going on, not understanding anything. 

I felt every raw emotion I could possibly feel and then nothing, it's as if my emotions would swallow me whole, engulfing me and welcoming me into an infinite surge of darkness then letting me come up to the surface to breathe only to then pull me back in again. I couldn't breathe anymore, I felt trapped in an endless corridor of broken glass that was only filled with the painful memories of my parents bodies and now the gruesome pictures and forensic reports I saw that night. That corridor, the one with the broken glass everywhere, it was filled with blood as I revisited every painful memory that had occurred to me. That blood in the corridor, it wasn't mine. I wasn't bleeding, that blood that I saw so vividly was coming from my parents cold and lifeless bodies at the end of that corridor. It was just oozing out of them, bruises and cuts making themselves visible to my eyes only. I ran towards them as fast as I could never able to reach them and save them as the corridor only grew longer and more agonizing with each step. 

As I realized the cold and bitter truth to this nightmare I became angrier waking up and destroying everything in my sights. I knocked down everything in my sights, tore up my covers, flipped my bed over, and punched every wall in sight. One night I even woke up screaming so bad that I broke the window with my own fist because I was so sick of feeling everything. I felt sick to my stomach knowing everything that I knew. That night I didn't want to feel internal pain anymore, I wanted to feel physical pain, something raw and in the moment. I was tired and nonetheless sleep deprived knowing no better. 

My world had come crashing down once again. Once again I was that twelve year old in denial, the girl who couldn't face reality. Only in this reality, I had to come to the realization that people actually lie. That people betray you not caring how many times it hurts you or let alone how much it wounds you. I came to the realization that what I knew to be the true cause of my parents death was a lie. Their death was excruciating, agonizing and very inhumane. I stayed up practically every night wondering how someone could do that to another person, it wasn't just a fight, it was torture. It was nothing a human being should ever go through. 

It's needless to say that I was just a breathing corpse by the end of the second week. My knuckles filled with bruises of red, blue and green with specks of dry blood embedded in each wound. My right arm filled with several cuts that were healing from my successful attempt at breaking my bedroom window. My dark hair laid in a messy bun with strands of hair going in all directions including strands that laid messily on my forehead from dry sweat making me look psychotic. My eyes were bloodshot red due to the aggravating nightmares that kept me up all night, the bags under my eyes visible from a significant distance. My appearance was worse than that of a homeless person, I was filthy. I was covered by dry sweat, my clothes reeking of exhaustion and pain. I even looked thinner, almost sick.