A shudder ripples through the floor and up the walls like an aftershock, but it’s not enough. I snatch it up again and slam it down over and fucking over, the leather smacking walls and floor like fists on bone.
I long for an explosion.
For the floor to crack open and the wall to split into pieces the same way my insides are ripping apart. Shrapnel-sharp fragments of rage and grief spray outward with every hit, tearing through me until all I can do is wail.
I hurl the chestpiece aside like it’s the thing that destroyed me.
Like I can blameanyonebut myself for this ruin.
The boots come next, wrenched off my feet without bothering to untie them, and pain lances up my legs to my hips.
It’s welcome, a sharp distraction from the deeper ache.
Pants follow in a tangle of hide, flung into the growing heap in the corner with careless force. Finally free of it all, I stand naked and heaving.
My chest rises and falls in ragged gasps, and I stare at the discarded leather as if it’s the source of every scar.
My hands fist in my hair, yanking hard enough to send white-hot clarity searing through the fog in my mind. Each tug pulls me back from the edge, then my gaze drops to my bare thighs.
To the raised wound nestled among the constellation of older, paler scars.
Reminders of countless nights just like this.
I fall to my knees as my fingernails dig in, twisting into the half-healed cut and reopening it with a deliberate roughness that drags a gasp from my throat. A few exhales chase the tears pouring down my face, relief flooding in as the sharp sting cuts through the chaos and grounds me in its burn.
My body is feverish, but my bones are cold.
Deep down, where those vile parts of me fester like buried rot, it never seems to thaw.
Blood wells beneath my fingers in dark, glistening beads, and I sink back onto my heels. I stare, transfixed, at the deep red streaking my thigh and fingertips, so vivid against the pale canvas of my skin.
A single tear falls, splashing into the crimson and creating a watery swirl that dilutes it to pink, and I close my eye, steadying my breathing with deliberate pulls of air that rattle in my chest.
This was always going to happen.
He was always going to say no.
I was always going to end up here, broken and bleeding.
Torn open.
This is what I deserve.
Shuddering breaths gradually slow the flood of tears, each inhale a battle against the urge to claw deeper and rip myself into smaller pieces.
Eventually I fight my way to my feet, and inside the tiny bathroom, I methodically clean my leg. I scrub until the skin is pink and angry, and the raw edges weep. A thin streak of blood stamps onto the towel like a tally mark.
A grim ledger keeping record of my shame.
I dab the cut again, the line fainter this time, but no less damning.
By the time the bleeding stops, six ruby-red stripes decorate the fabric, and my hands quake with the insatiable need to tear myself open and start the count all over again. I curl theminto tight fists, nails biting sharp crescents into my palms that ground me just enough to hold back.
Temporary marks for temporary control.
I crawl beneath the covers and pull them over my head, staring into the suffocating darkness of the sheets. I wait for the fragile relief to fade, wondering how long I can hold the pieces together this time before they scatter again.
Bash
