To most, eight minutes is brief. However, in precisely eight minutes, a young boy’s life was irreparably altered. I’m thinking eighty minutes minimum for Danny tonight.
Eighty minutes to remove his tongue, eyes, and the flesh between his legs. Should the prick’s heart not fail within eighty minutes of being slowly flailed alive, I will throw him to the pigs for good measure.
I clap my hands together and throw over my shoulder, “Alexa, volume up.” I imagine my grin is wickedly sinister as my knife slams into the back of Danny’s hand, leaving a mark on my tiles before I pull the blade towards me. Rest in peace, righty.
I glance down at my shirt, noticing the tiny stains of blood splatter.Shit, I’m going to have to burn it after all.
“Right so.” I get to my full height and begin to strip down to my boxers. Somehow, though I’m mostly naked, he looks at me as if I’m even more terrifying than before. I glance down to check if I’ve gone full mast (it happens on occasion; don’t judge!) Thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet; if it does, I’ll deal with it in the shower later tonight.
“Now,” I say, hunkering down to meet Danny’s gaze.
“Where were we?”
I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.
5
KATIE
I could fall asleep right now. The buzz of the needle as it scratches the soft flesh of my thigh is oddly soothing. Cillian continues to work diligently, his focus unwavering, as he meticulously creates another masterpiece that I cannot wait to behold.
Hazel eyes glance up from between my legs. “You alright there, Katie?”
I nod, a drowsy smile forming on my lips. I move just enough to glance down and see what we have so far. Medusa’s head. The serpents that weave around, forming a garter that wraps around my thigh, have yet to be completed. “She looks great.” A genuine smile spreads across my face as I admire Cillian’s handiwork.I’m about to say that the scars are no longer visible, but I stop myself.
For too long, I looked at my scars with shame and regret. For too long, I had a daily reminder of what that bastard did to me—what they all did to me. Too long have I tried to hide them from judging eyes and grimace when I’m asked aboutthem. Too damn long.
Today, I am reclaiming my power.
I no longer have to look at the marks and remember exactly what I did that day. I don’t have to remember the mindset I was in or just how very lost I was. How much pain I carried within me. I have enough flashbacks that haunt my dreams and invade my thoughts without having to look down and see the physical reminders of my past.
It is peculiar that although getting a tattoo feels identical to cutting into my skin, the sensation is not the same. While marring my flesh was a way to cope with my pain and emotions, getting a tattoo is a way for me to reclaim my body and create something beautiful out of my experiences.
I lean my head back on the chair, savouring the moment. It feels like I’ve finally started a new chapter in life, making all my hard work over the last seven years worth it. I have to thank that criminology course for setting me on the straight and narrow. I remember the exact moment I decided to hit the brakes on my self-destructive behaviour and turn my life around. It was during a lecture on the impact of childhood trauma on criminal behaviour.
At the time, I was self-medicating and drinking heavily, not as a form of addiction but as a way to dull the pain. To stop the memories and the cruel voices in my head telling me that I was not enough. I was not worthy of love or life.
I was a reckless idiot, indulging in risqué behaviours and taking on board any man who would have me, attraction or not. Why would I do such things, you may ask? I don’t know; depression can make you do some pretty fucked-up things. Perhaps I was trying to prove that I was desirable. Perhaps I was so desperate for validation that I went seeking it in allthe wrong places. I was so lost in my own self-doubt that I couldn’t see any other way to feel a sense of worth.
I masked my true self, believing that nobody would want me if they saw the creature that lies beneath. So I became a chameleon, constantly changing my personality and interests to fit the mould of whoever I was with at the time. It was exhausting, but I thought it was the only way to be accepted and loved.
No wonder I had that breakdown at twenty-six, feeling completely burned out and disconnected from my own identity.
Anyway, I’m getting off track.
That faithful day in question, the one that lit a fire under my arse and propelled me towards self-discovery, started like any other mundane day. I woke up with a heavy heart and felt unbearably hungover, tired of living a life that wasn’t truly mine. A fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, I was not, more like a worn-out soul desperately seeking a way out but was too chicken-shit to do it. I dressed quietly, moving through the house like a phantom so I wouldn’t wake the thundercunt upstairs.
Here are some more facts about me.
1) I grew up in a house with two raging alcoholics.
2) I am the youngest of four children.
3) I’ve been breaking up fights with fully grown adults since I was a child.
4) I had the most overbearing and, ironically, overprotective parents imaginable.
5) Despite this, I was first sexually assaulted before I ever hit double digits. I was also groomed by two older boys that I grew up with. I thought they were my friends. That they cared for me. Thus began my fucked-up cycle of thinking thatsex was a way to seek validation and love. It took me years to realise that what happened to me was not my fault and that I deserved better.
