Hurt ...

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Hurt 

As I open my eyes, everything is blurred; the bright light that hangs above me blinds me. The glistening crystals shinning like the morning sun, waking me up from an agonizing sleep, a sleep filled with nightmares of death and blood; blood that is mine. I was another person viewing me in my dream; I looked down at my body, my body that is lifeless. 

Blood soaks into a t-shirt that I do not own, who's I don't know? The burgundy red blood winds themselves through the flimsy material and in my abdominal stands a silver in crusted knife with ruby jewels that shine at the hilt. My face is swollen from hits; I am guessing.

 My lips are bleeding, my teeth have been cracked, my nose broken leaving it a wonky line. My face is snow white and is blotched with red and purple. My hair is scraggy and clumps of dry blood tangle my now limp spirals. 

Luke kneels beside me, looking at me in a disappointed way, and if he wasn't covered in my blood, I would have thought he was upset over my death. But he was the one who had killed me – he felt no remorse. 

When my vision adjusts I can tell I am still tied down in the room I was before, my legs where tied down again. Looking down at my body it is a mess of blood and love bites and bite marks, fresh scratch marks are marked on my abnormal sized hips. My body looks alien to my eyes; it no longer seemed like my body, I felt dirty and the worse thing was it felt like Luke owned a part of me now, my body was no longer mine – it was his too. 

In my mind the words: you should have chosen the other option, whirl in my head. It would have been over now – I would be dead, but instead I am here, being tortured in hell. I wish I could change my decision, why the hell did I think I would be able to escape; there is no hope. An image of my parents flash in my mind, I would never see them again, but in the distant part of my mind there's a whisper; my father's whisper, telling me not to give up hope. I listen to him, just like I always do and tell myself I was going to get out of here.

I always look up to my father; he was like my rock the person who took all the pressure of me from my childhood. I wouldn’t say my childhood was bad, but it wasn’t great either. My family was detached, don’t get me wrong we all loved each other and would do anything for the other, but our lives were distant as if my parents were old relatives I only saw once when I was a child (that I no longer could remember). That’s how it was you see, my parents were always gone, working 24/7, my mother was a music teacher at a fine top college and usually was a way a lot for trips, my father however was a writer, he wrote in every moment of his spare time – he loved it as much as he loved me. He used to just work from home, but then he got promoted and soon had to spend more time in the office, though he does try to work from home as he prefers it to the environment at work.  My mother however tried her best to avoid staying home, it was strange; it was as if she was trying to avoid me at all costs – but it’s a stupid thought right? I’m just being paranoid. But I can’t help but remember the looks she gave me when she was home for once, as if I was a stranger in her home, but behind the hard cold gaze there was sadness and worry in her black irises. I once thought I wasn’t hers that’s why she was so distant from me, but after some research I found out she was my mother. I just couldn’t get my head around her weird cold relationship to me, I once thought she was having an affair; it wouldn’t have surprised me if it was true. But it didn’t solve her cold foreign gaze.  

Arguments – that’s all I can mostly remember from my childhood; being alone a lot too. My parents constantly fought over ridiculous things but there’s one argument I can remember as if it was yesterday.  It was late at night, my mother had just came home from a trip to Dublin with her music class for a festival (don’t ask me what one, I didn’t care much as she preferred to spend more time with her students than her own daughter), my dad was up late working on his new novel – lies. Smashing of glass woke me from a light dream, I wondered what the commotion was, I remember thinking – are we being burgled? Then I heard the yells of my mother, I rolled my eyes back in my head and wishing she wasn’t here. I was nine at the time and I hated my mother for who she was; she was mean, distant, cold and unloving.  They argued for what seemed hours, I could hear there distinct grumbles of yells. And then one word popped out in particular – “Sasha” – my name. I listened more intently, trying to hear why I was being dragged into their argument. Shivers trembled down my spine as I listened closely to their words. 

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