SHE KILLS; tom riddle

𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯

TW (abuse)

THE SMELL WAS PUTRID, withering in her senses, chilling her skin, choking her.

Suffocate her.

What did I tell you Elise? What did you do Elise? Why are you so horrid Elise?

I love you Elise.

Spit on her.

The agony that rippled over the floorboards could send anyone into perpetual nightmares, terrors lurking in the shadows, poisoning you with syringes full of disaster, killing you slowly with your own pleads choking you.

Im sorry Elise.

Cut Her

Im sorry Im sorry Im sorry Im sorry Im so sorry.

Burn her,

like the witch she is.

She was in a slaughter house, or it felt so. Her limbs pulled from corridor to corridor, room from room. Glass shatters, skin sliced, screams and pleads repeated like they meant nothing, like they had no use except to be reiterated in different tones of defeat, a sinister lullaby of a broken record, a broken girl.

'Elise, darling' He would cry after, his shaky hands gripping her skin, tugging her body while she rolled like a rag doll.

'I forgive you.'

She believed it then, god what a fool she was. She believed everything.

Be a people pleaser Elise, my darling, my beautiful girl.

Fuck you.

Bury her,

six feet under next to him.

The vase had fallen one day. A simple vase with blue patterns along the edges, the flowers within had wilted ages ago, and as the sound of the crash rippled across the room as she watched, horrified as the petals broke off and scattered across the floor. They were from Charles' white rose garden, his 'hobby' he used to say, but she knew it was only to make mother happy. She always used to say she liked white roses-- she doesn't say much of anything anymore.

He stumbled, her father, jaw so tense, eyes so absolutely livid, he hadn't even cared that his shoes had scratched with the porcelain pieces, or the crunch of the dried flower petals had made a mess along the floor; he only cared for the fact that she had to suffer for what she'd done.

Perfect perfect Elise—not so perfect anymore.

That was the day he cut her arm with the pretty blue pattern of the sharp edged vase.

That was the day he cried, her blood soaking his shirt, her tears clinging to his skin when he clutched her.

His little darling, so gentle, so kind.

She had fallen asleep one day, on the couch— which was risky in itself. His intoxicated breath had fallen against her skin and she squirmed, pushed and wailed when his weight incapsulated her.