{CURRENTLY EDITING/SLIGHT REWRITE.}
Ainsley Ashter was a freak-show. A psychopath. An absolute and utter maniac.... Or so they thought.
She was imprisoned at the age of thirteen when she murdered her parents using nothing but the metal leg of her b...
TRIGGER WARNING : Mentions of Abuse. ♧◇♤ These symbols mark thespotof anything triggering as its a flashback to her abuse. You can skip it if you don't feel comfortable reading it.
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
" I am sorry for this, Bell..."
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
CHARLOTTE WAS WILLING TO LET JOHN DIE TO COVER UP HER CRIME. Ainsley can hardly wrap her mind around it, but she seems to be the only one not surprised by the age of the little girl, or by the unbridled rage stemming inside John because of it. Ainsley tries to hide a wince as the wind hits the painful bruising on her face as they stand outside the tent.
Ainsley doesn't want to watch a little girl be subjected to the same fate. She doesn't want them to string up Charlotte, but Ainsley isn't going to go against John, either; even though, if Ainsley had her way, everyone but him would be taken out one by one and hung for what they did to her. For what they did to him. Ainsley doesn't blame Charlotte. Not really. She didn't become a monster without help to get there, and neither did Charlotte. They each had their own demons, and they slayed them in the only way they knew how.
"Bring out the girl, Bellamy!" John shouts from beside Ainsley, his voice still hoarse yet filled with an unimaginable anger that makes her flinch.
♧ ◇ ♤
There's one thing Ainsley had never been able to wrap her brain around. Everyone who knew her parents had their suspicions, but nobody had ever tried to stop it. Ainsley could never fathom their reasoning, but they certainly never tried to save her from her father's drunken rage, or her mother's late night benders. Ainsley's mother never laid a hand on her. A small consolation, but one nonetheless; but what's worse? Someone who does the violence, or the one who sits back and watches it happen without any shred of remorse?
Ainsley was four years old when her father first put his hands on her. He'd come home from work already blitzed from re-supplying his stash at Nygels on the way home. It was never an immediate thing. He'd let everyone around him think he's fine, that he isn't going to blow up; and then he does. It always started with yelling. Even if there was absolutely nothing to yell about, he always managed to find something, even if it was only just a remnant of dirt that her mother had forgotten to clean, or toys left out in the walkway.
Yet it was almost never her mother who got hit. Ainsley would scream and beg for him to stop, but that only made it worse. Crying always made it worse.
