A mother that never knew the word love. Leaving her to pass it down to her daughter who recoiled at the sound or gesture like it was unfamiliar. And now she's thirteen, wondering why she never got used to it. Used to the filling of hurt bringing her more comfort than the feeling of love, like a mother cradling its crying child with a rocking hush. It was confusing to why the feeling of her gut sinking into itself brought her more comfort than the feeling of arms wrapping around her shoulders with a comforting touch. She despised it. It burned her out.
But when fifteen. It became something familiar. The emptiness, the hurt, the agony. But she buried it deep within her conscience because the only thing the humans knew where the connection of love and happiness. Something she didn't understand. The only thing she did were the words that burned and sank into her, the water that slid down her cheek beginning to crust, the hands that bruises, they were all something familiar, something she understood. So they wouldn't understand, the feeling that would make them separate brought her together. So she did best to swallow it. Swallow down the tears that was that was stuck in her throat, the feeling of her knees wearing from under her. It became a nasty habit that she began hating.
Because the pain she thought she swallowed, was now buried in her throat and spreading down to her lungs, consuming her like a nasty disease. It gnawed at her until she was nothing but bones. It became a pain that didn't cradle her. It became a betrayal that made her.
Because now she was a killer, even when the murder started with herself.
A killer that went for the heart and soul, and enjoyed it—enjoyed the fear that ran through the victims body as she approached them, the sweat that clung to the skin just above the brow, the pants that escaped them. It became her. The unfamiliar familiar feeling, the goosebumps, she became a sinnerwoman that used to be formed like a saint. It overwhelmed her, the feeling of Death coursing through her and the feeling of every emotion that came with it. It made her drunk on a malicious stupor. It consumed her, but it was now the only thing she knew, making her nauseous.
But over time it became a relief.
Until the feeling past and it became something she couldn't bare. She crumbled. Guilt building up in her body, slicing at her heart, her gut, her soul, filling her up until her body exploded and rebuilding it was angers relentless cousin—something unfamiliar until now as she watched with a torn shirt, a lifeless corpse rot in-front of her. She was like the fly drawn to the decay. Eyes with no life in them. Mouth hung open with a dry tongue. A nose with blood running down to plush lips. She was corrupted. It was something that ate her inside with no remorse, a thing she thought she never had. Now she no longer the girl that only felt agony and hurt but a girl that felt everything.
Hurt, and anger consumed her. A thing that used to bring comfort to the little girl.
Turning her into something she couldn't bear.
Something she couldn't recognize.
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