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Dollhouse - Melanie Martinez Wordcount - 3088
☽♛☾
[TW: Abuse] Y/n was sat in the middle of her room, playing with her stuffed teddy. She was nine now, the years had rushed by, yet it had felt like forever. Despite her young age, Y/n wrote in her diary every day. It was a way of venting, scribbling down her entire life on pages which was filled with her own trauma and experiences. Watching the ink dry into the pages of her private diary was relaxing, it was a way for her to escape reality, getting all the shit off her shoulders. Even though the diary didn't talk, she felt like it understood her, and she held onto that thought for dear life, seeing as no one else was there for her.
The wooden floor outside her door gave a light creak, making Y/n instantly look up, every muscle in her body tensing as if a monster was standing on the other side. For all she knew, it could be a monster, the drinking monster of her so called mother.
Y/n would on a daily basis keep her guard up, if Edith, the monster was to show up. Luckily for Y/n, Edith usually kept inside her room. But the constant fear was always there, of somehow seeing her, bumping into her while going to the toilet or anything like that. The feeling of uneasiness walking around the house was exhausting, it felt like living under the same roof as a serial killer, or living in a movie where you had to constantly hide to not be seen by the villain. Though, real life wasn't a movie, and she had come to learn that early. Real life was stuff that was actually happening, movies were on screens and not real, pain in real life was something that you could feel. For example, the pain of a slap going through your skin, feeling the sting in every vein of your chin while it turned white, or the numb feeling of a kick on the leg, the pain that was concentrating on one area to continue through your body, like venom traveling through your veins until it finally disappeared, only leaving a blue mark.
Y/n knew this, she knew the exact feeling of a slap, she knew exactly how it felt, being kicked or hurt in any way, all because of a human living in the same house as herself. A human who had completely given up on life, deciding that it was better to not feel anything at all, and that through drinking and drugs which affected the rest of the househeld worse than it affected herself at some points. A human who she could not escape in any way.
Y/n let out a single breath of relief which she didn't know she'd been holding, her tense body relaxing, watching her cat walk into the room. Truth to be told, it wasn't Y/n's cat, but it had sticked around the house for as long as Y/n could remember, and she had the habit of letting the cat in. It seemed to feel lost, lonely, just like Y/n, and sometimes it was nice having someone living, even though it was a cat to talk to. Y/n had named the grey cat Layra. Layra would all too often be her vent buddy, even though her diary was her number one. Stroking Layra's fur, Y/n felt somewhat safe, cared for and loved. It was a cat, and yet it felt more like a mother figure than Edith did.
