There is always a before and an after.
Sometimes I wondered, what if that 'after' part never came?
WARNING: There are extremely graphic sexual abuse during this chapter. I'll be posting many, many trigger warnings through each section of this story. If you have any trauma involving these heavy topics, I strongly advise you to not read this story.
This is heavily, heavily based on my own trauma. I've left out some chunks on purpose. Those will be explored as the story progresses.
This IS an Underfell story, absolutely. Starting from after this, is where Shilows story will continue in the Underground.Once again. HEAVY TRIGGER WARNINGS INVOLVING SEXUAL ABUSE.
You've been warned.
-Gahtto.
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I remember this night as if it was yesterday. I remember the color of my bedroom. The smell of my freshly cleaned sheets. They were bright pink to match the colors of my wall. I was wearing my nightie, like any other small child would. If I told you my age of this memory, you wouldn't believe me.
Sitting on my bed, even at such a young age, I loved to read. Pop-up books, to be specific, were my favorite back then. They made me smile. I was sitting near the edge of my bed, my legs crossed together. I will admit, I don't remember the time of the night. I would stay up past my bedtime, I knew this.
I wasn't paying attention, too involved in whatever childish book I was reading.
Maybe, just maybe, if I had paid more attention, I would have heard my bedroom door slowly creak open.
If I had paid more attention, I would have noticed him standing behind me.
If only I had just paid more fucking attention that night.
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I let out a long sigh as I leaned my back against my bedroom door. It was locked for protection, and my hands were covering my ears. I was seven now. But age doesn't matter, does it? Or, maybe it does.
You see, by this age, I already knew what fear was. Anxiety. My heart beating like a hammer; my chest feeling as if an elephant was sitting on me.
They were fighting again.
I shut my eyes tightly, leaned my head forward and pushed my hands harder against my ears to try and block it out. Each time something in the living room was thrown violently. Each time a fist connected against the wall, each time I heard the screaming getting louder and louder by the second, my body would tense. I had formed a nasty habit already of chewing my bottom lip raw, my nails chewed to shit. The worst part came was after the fighting was done. After the screaming stopped. After everything became silent. I would feel the door handle to my room begin to violently shake. My back feeling the bedroom door being slammed. Punched. Kicked. Desperately trying to break in. I swiftly turned around and pressed my hands against the door, pushing as hard as I can to keep it locked. To keep myself safe. Begging, pleading, in my head:
Not tonight. Not tonight. Please... not tonight.
It never worked. Despite my best effort, despite my determination, he always managed to win. My body flung back as the door was violently kicked open. I landed on my back and quickly propped myself up with my arms, staring up at him. My body trembled violently. I was frozen. I'm sure you all understand the fight or flight response, yes? Well, let me tell you something you may not know. Sometimes, with certain people, who have been through certain situations. We have a third option. Fight, flight, or freeze.
After one night of trying to fight, I quickly learned it was better to freeze. But sometimes that still wasn't enough.
I kept my eyes of the man that was my father. He was panting heavily, and my mother was nowhere to be found. This was normal on nights like these. After fights, after the violence, she wasn't anywhere to be found. Perhaps she was terrified of him herself? Perhaps that was why, after, she wouldn't protect me.
"Don't worry, daddy is here.. daddy will keep you safe.. Come. Come to daddy, sweetheart.."
