Don't Touch Her Act 2: Finding Peace

Chapter Thirty-Five

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𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓪

Sara took a knife and slit my arms.

I screamed, crying as she did so.

I had fought one of the men. Kicked him in places and punched him in the gut and face. He was a small man. Maybe only an inch or two taller than I was.

He was angry and yelled at Sara. That's when she took me by the arm, grabbed the knife, and started the torture.

I remember the pain and the blood running down my arms. There wasn't any real damage. She only cut the surface.

I remember Ethel had cleansed my wounds with alcohol that night. She stuffed my face into her shoulder as I cried from the pain.

I remember looking at Violet that next day. She looked curious, frightened, staring at me. I wouldn't tell her. I would never tell her what happened, even if she begged me to.

I had promised myself that.

I suppose that's where it started.

My cutting.

The self-infliction.

The thirst for pain.

It felt relieving in some way, as if doing so let out all my impurities.

All the sin inside me, the filthiness, the infection inside my bones and blood. It washed away every time I took the knife.

I used my thighs. Easy to hide; therefore, no questions could be asked.

Once Ethel had found me.

She took the knife and threw it across the bathroom floor.

I wanted to scream. I felt ashamed, embarrassed.

Sometimes men saw the scars, but they never complained about it to Sara.

Ethel always checked my pockets before I went anywhere. For a time, it stopped my cutting, but I found other ways to calm my hunger.

I would escape from my private room and find Violet, take the man that was with her and lead him back to mine. I had two.

I wanted to protect her, but I also wanted the pain.

Sometimes I asked them to hurt me.

And they'd oblige.