Something like A Tragedy (Modern Mika X Abused Reader)

Part

There's something about comfortable silence.
Something about it... it's so... whole.

There's no fear, no nervous shifting or awkward body language.
Nothing but the gently putt of the engine and the slight rattling of the car on a dirt road.

He says nothing, and you say nothing, but you both just... don't feel the need, for a few moments.
These moments free of fear are moments you've began to feel yourself craving.

Free of rain.

"Mikaela...?" You called, hesitantly, feeling a small twinge of disappointment at yourself for pulling the blanket of silence away.

His eyes moved over to you momentarily, just long enough for him to gauge your expression, before he focused on the road again.
"Yes?"

You shifted your gaze to your lap. "Why do you and Yuuichiro act so oddly when you talk about your uncle?"

Mikaela's expression went sour.
"He's a pervert, and neither of us like him. He's... odd."

You parted your lips to reply, but your heart leaped as you realized how close you were to home.

"Stop here," You rushed, and Mikaela gently applied the brakes.
He arched a brow.

"This is even farther than last time."

Your mind raced for an excuse, and you tittered nervously. "Yes, our mailbox is father down here and I wanted to check it before walking home."

Good, you didn't stutter!

Mikaela sighed, the exhale shifted a strand of blond hair that had fallen in his face up in the air, only to float down against his cheek again.

"Alright," he gave in, "...but be safe."

You nodded, thanked him for the ride, and then slid out of the car, walking down the road and stopping at some random person's mailbox just for show.

You took a few envelopes from it as
Mikaela's car turned out of view, then sighed and put them back.

You were late to get home, late by an hour because you'd gone to their practice.

That meant a penalty.

As you walked to the house, you prepared yourself.
Little things, like pulling up your hair so it would hurt less of a fistful was grabbed.
Slipping on an extra jacket for padding.
Carefully tucking your injured arm away into your pocket.

When the door opened, your heart was pounding faster than it should be capable of, but outwards you were calm, with the eerie stillness that came as if you were laying your neck beneath a guillotine and had accepted the icy blade hanging above you.

The next moments after your mother was revealed were a blur. Her words seemed muffled, you tuned it out.

A slap to the face, it wasn't bad. Her nails didn't cut, though you distantly knew such a hard hit would bruise.

She had seized your arm, she wouldn't break it, she didn't want to pay the hospital bills.

She shattered no bottles against your flesh, but her heel dug into your back as she shoved you into the ground, another thought of what the shape and shade of that bruise would be.

She left, you almost allowed yourself to the world again, but she returned, a belt in her hand.
It was the bad one, the thin one that left stinging streaks for weeks.

It didn't matter, you weren't there. Your mind was foggy.
Another few words, an order for your shirt to be taken off.
Fine.
You obeyed.

Pain hazed everything.
Then it was over.
You picked yourself up again, came back to yourself.

Now you would survey the damage.

The bruises hadn't formed yet, but the markings had, you took a shower to clean them, it stung worse than the initial burnings.

You went to bed, still in a state of unfeeling.

___

The next morning, the pain hit you like an electric shock, and you lay gasping for a moment, before standing from your bed and approaching the full-body mirror leaned against the wall.

Shit. This was bad.

The bruises were dark, very dark, it would be hard to hide them even under layers and layers of expensive concealer.
Your back you could do nothing about except wear a baggy shirt and smear Vaseline over your injured skin so that it wouldn't scab over and get all crackled.
The skin around the whip markings was raised and tender, it felt like a burn.

The bruises throbbed dully, though they weren't as painful they were visually bad.

You began the traditional procedure of primer, foundation, concealer, a layer of white, and then more foundation and concealer, after a while you seemed almost human again.
To distract from the rest of your face you put on eye makeup as well, though it might not work.

There was a small bruise on the back of your hand, you took care of that as well, and donned a puffy sweater bound to get lint stuck in your wounds.
There was nothing else that didn't agitate the area, though, so you kept it, throwing on jeans and regular shoes and such robotically.

A light ring from your cellphone, a message from Mikaela.

Shinoa had somehow gotten ahold of your number to give to him.

'I'm here to pick you up if you're ready.
I'm parked a few houses down.'

Your heart beat a little faster.