Warning: Physical abuse, strong language, and blood.
Lotus Blood - Age 13
"Is there anything particular you'd like to talk about?"
"...No."
"That's fine," Dr.Sanger pulled out a clipboard, "I've got some questions for you." I immediately tensed every muscle in my body and my hands began to sweat. I could feel the warm drops slide over my cuts and it burned.
Questions needed answers, truthful ones - not fabricated lies I had been coached to say.
"Don't worry, Lotus, you don't have to answer anything you don't feel comfortable answering." She gave me a warm smile and grabbed a pink pen with a large pom pom on the end of it - and for some odd reason, it almost made me crack a small smile.
"Do you have any hobbies? Perhaps a sport?"
My eyes lifted from her fluffy pen to her brown eyes, and her perfectly-plucked brows rose in question.
"I like painting." My voice was barely above a whisper and I switched my gaze towards Dr.Sanger's pink pen moving across the clipboard. The sound of the pen hitting the paper soothed my ears and I knew she was writing in cursive because of the continuous moving of her wrist.
"Anything else?" Her pen was poised above the paper, and I shook my head while shifting my sitting position so my hands were out of view. "Alright, how about anything that calms you down or puts you at ease?"
"Raindrops."
And teardrops.
"Oh! That's interesting, I've always enjoyed thunderstorms," Dr.Sanger's smile widened and she went on to describe the sunroom in her house and how she loved to watch the rain while sitting in the middle of the room.
"I like thunderstorms, as well." I swallowed, hoping the anxiety bubbling up in the pit of my stomach would fade into the abyss. However, I could feel myself relaxing in the environment. Just the sounds of the murmuring in the hallways of the building and the slight humming of the heater, paired with Dr.Sanger's bubbly attitude, and her fluffy pink pen.
"We have so much in common!" Dr.Sanger exclaimed, pushing her golden waves behind her ear and looking back down at her clipboard, "I thought today we could just get to know each other today."
"Okay," I nodded in uncertainty, and for the next forty minutes Dr.Sanger asked me questions about my life and followed them up with answers of her own.
Relaxed.
For the first time in years, I wasn't on edge, and an unexpected twinge of disappointment rushed through me when she announced our time was up.
It's good to be away from her.
You're too broken to fix.
A lost cause.
A waste of time.
A rock in my throat, I handed Dr.Sanger the check my mother gave me and began to walk out of her office - my hands toying with the loose thread in my hoodie pocket.
"Wait, one more thing." I swiveled around and Dr.Sanger handed me a small slip of paper. "Feel free to text me if you ever want to talk about anything." I stared down at the small numbers written in pink ink, then back up at her.
"Thank you."
"See you next week, Lotus," Her manicured hands squeezed my shoulders as I stepped out of her office, and I tried to shake the feelings - feigning indifference. The slip of paper between my fingers became sweaty and when I paused to look at it again in the car, the delicate pink numbers had been smudged slightly.
"You better have shut your big mouth," my mother said bitterly, I noticed her fingers clutching the steering wheel - acrylic nails puncturing the black leather. When I didn't answer my mother's eyes began staring at me through the rearview mirror. "Answer me, do not be disre-"
"I didn't say anything!" I screeched, fresh tears welled in my eyes and the poor slip of paper in my pocket tore clean in half in the process. Wrenching open the door, I stormed up the front porch and pounded on the wood - when my brother opened the door I shoved him to the side and flipped the bird at both him and my mother.
Before I could retreat to my bedroom, Nathan's strong hand curled around my bicep and he shoved me to the floor. Luckily, I broke most of my fall with my hands but even they had been stretched to their limits today and I hoped they wouldn't start bleeding again.
"Look at the little retard," he grinned as my mother paid us no mind and waltzed into the kitchen. "She can't even stand."
It was true.
Painfully throbbing, my ankle seemed to have twisted and it didn't help that my left hand had split open and blood began to drip down my arms and onto the hardwood floors. Tears spilled over my reddened cheeks and eventually, I gave up trying to stand - Nathan left me bleeding and crying near the stairs while he sauntered into the kitchen.
Fuck you.
After twenty minutes of strained, silent sobbing, I'd found the strength to drag myself towards the basement door and descend down the cold cement steps of our basement. Abandoning trying to walk up stairs was the better decision I could've made because there was no way I was making it up to my bedroom with my ruined ankle.
Hopefully, it's not broken.
Drip.
"One thousand nine hundred eighty-three," I whispered as I crawled through my cave of boxes to the other room - now covered in blood. From the walls to the ceiling, words and swirls painted in blood splayed across the steel grey concrete making the most beautiful canvas of red-browns.
Cupping my already bleeding hand, I started to paint the only thing I felt at the moment. My fingers moved across the floor and I mixed my blood with some red paint I had stolen from my art class to stretch my blood further and complete my masterpiece. The thin red blood let patches of the concrete underneath show through and I stepped back to view my full painting.
Anger.
Anger was a funny thing. It wasn't hate, but a feeling of betrayal, hurt, and shock. Feeling alone with your emotions as they consumed you, while the people who once loved you would stand and watch the flames lick at your feet. However, I hated anger. Despised it. Anger was the one emotion I portrayed that I couldn't stand. I may have been angry at my mother and brother - but I was angrier at myself.
Angry for the person I knew I was becoming.
Drip.
"One thousand nine hundred eighty-four."
I felt it because I knew I couldn't stop it.
YOU ARE READING
Finger Painting
Mystery / Thriller"I WORE THE SMELL OF BLOOD AND DEATH LIKE PERFUME" I may have been angry at my mother and brother - but I was angrier at myself. Angry for the person I knew I was becoming. Drip. "One thousand nine hundred eighty-four." I felt it and I knew I couldn...
