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Violet wouldn't hurt a fly.

Everyone knew that.

She hated violence, because violence always led to someone getting hurt, and when someone got hurt it just meant it was her turn to pick up the pieces and she hated it.

All she had ever known was healing - fixing skin together at the cost of physical touch that constantly threatened to destroy her, and left her worse off than the person she had been trying to help.

She hated the sight of blood, the sound of raised voices, the suffocating tension in the air before things turned violent.

So the siblings considered, looking at her now, that something inside of sweet little quiet Violet must have finally snapped.

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"Why is there a missing persons report for Violet all over the city news?"

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The girl who craved physical contact so badly it ached deep within her bones - yet who had been so scorned by it - was the same unfortunate girl who's resolve crumbled like ash when someone touched her.


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"You don't talk much, do you, dear?"













REWRITTEN.

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