"I was hiding in doubt till you brought me out of my chrysalis...and I came out new...all because of you."
Josephine McArthur is well and truly lost. After completely uprooting and changing her life she is left unsure of pretty much anything. An u...
I stayed underneath it, letting it wash away the guilt in my head. Begging it to rid me of my guilt and clear my conscience. Begging it to burn the image of his hurt eyes from my brain.
The itch remained. I clawed at my skin, trying to scrape off every touch that it's ever felt.
If you weren't so filthy, you wouldn't feel like this.
If you weren't so pathetically desperate to be touched, you wouldn't feel like this.
If you would stop letting anyone with a pulse fuck you, you wouldn't feel like this.
Disgusting.
Dirty.
No wonder they touch you like that when you act the way you do.
Do you ever really put up a fight?
Why is friendship never enough for you?
Oh right, because you're a whore.
My sobs wracked through my body, I knew they were loud but I couldn't stop them. All I could do was pray that whoever was next to me couldn't hear them.
I was still gasping for air, bent over with my hands on my knees as the water stung my back. There were long red marks down my arms and across my torso from my nails digging into the skin. They looked angry and painful and they stung even worse when the water hit them.
I managed to numb my skin with the heat of the water and finally turned it off. I was exhausted, my pill was kicking in. I sat there on the floor of the shower and laid my head on my knees as I wrapped my arms around them, desperately trying to hold myself together.
I sat in that shower for forty-five minutes, rocking back and forth while my eyelids got heavy. My nails dig into the skin of my shins while my brain tore me to shreds.
You're just like your mother.
Am I?
You're crazy like her, look at you.
Am I?
She hates you for what you did.
I just wanted her safe.
Ironic coming from the girl covered in scratches who's making her own shins bleed right now.
Maybe I am like her.
What the hell are you waiting for?
What the hell am I waiting for?
I remembered then that I had written down exactly what I was waiting for once upon a time. I had a list that I added to. I crawled from the tiled floor and wiped the blood from my shins before slipping a shirt over my head and making my way to my bag.
I pulled out a worn leather journal and flipped to the middle, to the crumpled and torn page that I've gone back to so many times.
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