𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐯𝐢. my only plea is a moment of mercy.

(mentions of child abuse, please read with caution.)

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

Solitary confinement can't be much different from the way she feels now, she thinks. She's shivering and lonely. It's the only way to describe how she feels when she comes to the next morning, sun beating down upon where she lays on the tiled floor. One would think from the direct sunlight she'd be warm, like a dog sunbathing on the back porch, but she's not. The sun shines but the warmth is absent from it's ray, and she knows it's the consequence of her actions.

The cold shoots shivers up her spine, chattering teeth echoing throughout the kitchen, bounces off the wall, and it taunts her. Reminds her she's never truly alone in this house, locked within these walls like an inmate. The hummingbird clock hung high on the wall sees everything, hears everything, and then, it chimes.

You're a fool.

You're a fool.

You're a fool.

It's a mantra, a pericope omitted from some religious text as to leave it's followers blindsided by the false ideology ingrained in their minds. But it's her pericope, and no matter what, will always be found. You're a fool, you're a fool, you're a fool; it's a prayer of sorts. If you were to start a religion based on beliefs about her, the scripture would be vile. Burnt pages with long forgotten truths, fallacious wrongdoings written in cursed handwriting. Cults would form, houses would burn, and ruination settles within your splenetic bones. But it's all in the name of Lavinia, the purest form of evil.

The gears turn and the hummingbird shoots out, and it chimes once again. It's almost mocking, in a way. Each tick of the second a reminder that it hears what you say. Each tock of the minute a remind that it watches your every move. When the clock strikes an hour, singing it's haunting tune, the insidious chime reminds you that it knows all, much like God in a sense. And much like God, it does nothing to rescue her.

You're a fool.

You're a fool.

You're a fool.

Her eyes stay closed, terrified that when she opens them her mother will be standing above her blotting her pink lipstick, coating the wicked smile painted behind her eyelids, even though Lavinia knows she won't be. Her left shoulder aches against the cotton of her jumper, burns at the slightest move of her every inhale, and she knows it'll be a bitch to heal. If she's lucky, her mothers fingerprints won't scar into her skin, but she wasn't as lucky last time. The minutes drag on as she listens to the clock, counting the tick of each second.

She has one hundred and twenty four seconds after the second chime before she knows her mother will enter the room. One hundred and twenty four seconds to mentally prepare herself for the consequences of her actions. One hundred and thirty two seconds to convince her mother that she's dead this time. She may have been able to save herself from Matthijs, but she cannot save herself from her mother.