Hate me-see if i care

Mother

The room stops blurring into each other after a while. The floor eventually turns cold, the room turning dark as I lay there, motionless. The bruises litter my body, blood pooling in little puddles in the tile floor.I  lay there, the dark blanketing my body, covering up the cuts, bandaging the wounds.

Feeling hollow, my body slowly started straightening, muscles clenching as pain shot through my wounds with every move I made.

My footsteps limped toward the mirrors that covered the walls.

The glass slid beneath my fingers, cold to the touch. 

My other hand skimmed through the ruffled folds of my dress, hiding the rips beneath the thick, soft folds, wiping the blood away with a white handkerchief.

It was a familiar process, watching the gold embroiders on the handkerchief turn red as I hid my bruises under mulberry silk and baby cashmere, piles of ribbon delicately curving to show complicated, fiddly bows.

I huffed, giving up on loosening the bows that tied my corset together. Bitter laughter came out of my mouth alarmingly loud, the dark humour in the Beautiful Golden Princess covered in bruises and being used to being treated like trash appealing to me in a sick, twisted way.

The air was getting dangerously cold, white clouds puffing out of my mouth. Wrapping my arms around my body, my legs walked toward the doors, hands reaching, curling around the ivory handles—to find they were locked.

A wave of dread crashed into my shivering body like concrete. I had to spend the night in this room. The Princess, abandoned, spending the night in a freezing room!

A sigh escaped my lips. I would have to make-do with what I had. Eyeing the Thick silk curtains, I started reasoning with the girl in the mirror, who had somehow become a voice in my head.

'You shouldn't. These are curtains that father likes. He would be furious if I ripped them to use as a blanket.'

'Yes, he would be furious. But its his fault, isn't  it? He left us, locked, in this freezing cold room! May I remind you our skin is turning blue? Death by frostbite seems extremely plausible right now.'

'It's curtains. Made of the most exquisite silk,  thick and soft, but designed to cover windows, not a girl. I....I shouldn't.'

'It's the only fucking thing that can keep us from dying out of frostbite, is what you mean! Rip the edges, go on the sofa, and sleep. God knows you owe that much to me. I'm bleeding, bruised and tired.'

Her voice was condescending. She was right, I did owe her that much. Slowly, I scanned the large, golden curtain, pale skin brushing over delicate fabric.

'Rip the curtain with one of your daggers in your hair, then cut your dress into the form of  a nightgown—god knows how comfortable that will feel.'

Hesitation stopped me from following her orders, my numb wounds warning me about my fathers temper. I felt my body sway, a fire so hot it felt cold licking my skull, body flaring up. Everything was spinning, my mind focusing on my hands tightening around the dagger.

In one jagged motion I teared the curtain down, watching as the golden silk cascaded into a pile on the floor. Then, in a bout of frantic fury, my hand thrust itself into my hair, fingers white against my diamond dagger, slashing through the sofa.

White leather floated in the ice-cold air, seeming like light particles in the dark, glowing as the broken star-threads that had weaved the sofa together lit up before shimmering away. I watch, mesmerised, as the stardust trails away.

I know the stardust isn't real. My mother used to talk about ripping star threads with my father, holding hands beneath the starlight floating in the air. She used to run her hands along all the stair-rails in the castle, spinning poetry and singing to the tune of Rowdy playboy, a musical song that she could never memorise the lyrics to.

I'd crawl into her arms, and look upon in wonder as she acted out tales of scavengers stealing from the king, or a princess being kissed to life by a prince. She'd tell stories of her youth inside that giant castle shaped prison. She was a actor on a giant stage called life, acting that she wasn't the ghost queen of the Kingdom, acting oblivious to my fathers obvious cold demeanour toward her, acting like the perfect mother, before hanging herself in her room, walking off the stage and quitting.

I imagined my parents first meeting, a sunflower falling for the impenetrable sun, withering away with her daughter in the castle tower, waiting for my father—who were toying with other flowers. She told me of my fathers eyes, earthly and warm. His gait, prideful and graceful, the crown she had never seen him without, his calloused hands that had stroked her hair and caressed her body, telling sweet lies about forever.

My body feels weak, draped along the ripped sofa. Pale legs lounge on the cottfeathers that had stuffed the sofa, curtain brushing against my skin like a paintbrush against a canvas. I feel drained. It's hilarious, how fast my emotions change. 

My eyes close, my mind choosing to ignore every bruise and cut, and blissful darkness soon envelops my world.