frantic concern and desperate fury lighting up his eyes.
“Shower. Now. Talk. After.”
N O WORDS . N O FUCKING WORDS . My brain is having a hard time believing the image that is before me, as if my eyes are lying, and I’m stunned…shocked...speechless. For one of the few times in my life, I’m unsure of what to say or do. Part of me wants to run to the bloody, broken girl standing in my bathroom sobbing as she looks at herself in the mirror and comfort her, tell her everything will be okay and I’ll fix whatever is wrong. The other part of me wants to scream at the top of my lungs, admonishing her for harming herself, and then go kill whoever fucked her up to the point she’d do something like this.
Her cries and grunts are what first alerted me she was up, but after her confession about her busted lip, I knew she suffered with nightmares and was trying to give her some privacy. It was evident on Monday she wasn’t ready to tell me what spurs the terrors or the underlying reason for them, but I didn’t want to push; I’m realizing more and more I have to take my own advice with this girl—slow and steady. The intense fervor she incites inside of me—a feeling so penetrating it’s borderline scary—assures me she’ll be worth it once she’s mine.
When I heard her get out of bed, I came to check on her, assuming she may be a little disoriented waking up in a strange place; however, I never in my wildest dreams expected to see her like this. Overlooking her obvious malnutrition for the moment, the streams of blood oozing from a multitude of slashes and cuts and running down her tiny abdomen is the first thing I need to address. Bringing my hand to my disheveled hair, I thread my fingers through the tangled strands, desperately trying to devise my plan of action. She sees my movement in the mirror and spins around to face me, panic and mortification heavy in her expression.
“Shower. Now. Talk. After,” I bark, the words coming out much gruffer than I intend.
Immediately, she hangs her head to hide her tears and crosses her arms across her chest to cover her boobs. “I’m sorry for this,” she croaks in between her sobs. “I just want to go home.”
Rushing to her side, I’m hesitant to touch her, not wanting to inflict any additional pain. I lift her chin gently, forcing her to look up at me. “Don’t apologize, sweet girl,” I whisper soothingly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about it. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Tenderly, I kiss each of her tear-stained cheeks before leading her by the hand over to the shower.
“The spray of the shower will sting too badly. It’s better to clean them with a washcloth and then alcohol,” she reasons, obviously having done this before. “I can take care of it, Madden.”
I stop mid-stride and turn to her, knowing damn well my eyes are full of pity—I can’t help it. “Okay, but please let me help you.”
With a slight nod of her head, I open the linen closet, pull out a couple of cloths, and guide her back to the sink. Wetting the first washcloth, I drop to my knees in front of her, putting me eyelevel with the lacerations. She keeps her arms tightly wrapped over her chest as I go to work, carefully cleaning up the red streaks from her bony rib cage and concaved stomach, which I notice aren’t all fresh, thus confirming this is a common occurrence. I bite my tongue to keep myself from commenting on her frailness, because I don’t want to tear her down any more than she already is at this moment. Instead, I make a mental note to feed her every chance I get.
After nearly fifteen silent minutes, all of the blood is wiped away and I grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet. Returning to my kneeling position, I peer up at her, making sure she’s ready for the burning sensation I know is about to come. Her eyes are closed tightly, and she’s chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Her helplessness and
“Shower. Now. Talk. After.”
N O WORDS . N O FUCKING WORDS . My brain is having a hard time believing the image that is before me, as if my eyes are lying, and I’m stunned…shocked...speechless. For one of the few times in my life, I’m unsure of what to say or do. Part of me wants to run to the bloody, broken girl standing in my bathroom sobbing as she looks at herself in the mirror and comfort her, tell her everything will be okay and I’ll fix whatever is wrong. The other part of me wants to scream at the top of my lungs, admonishing her for harming herself, and then go kill whoever fucked her up to the point she’d do something like this.
Her cries and grunts are what first alerted me she was up, but after her confession about her busted lip, I knew she suffered with nightmares and was trying to give her some privacy. It was evident on Monday she wasn’t ready to tell me what spurs the terrors or the underlying reason for them, but I didn’t want to push; I’m realizing more and more I have to take my own advice with this girl—slow and steady. The intense fervor she incites inside of me—a feeling so penetrating it’s borderline scary—assures me she’ll be worth it once she’s mine.
When I heard her get out of bed, I came to check on her, assuming she may be a little disoriented waking up in a strange place; however, I never in my wildest dreams expected to see her like this. Overlooking her obvious malnutrition for the moment, the streams of blood oozing from a multitude of slashes and cuts and running down her tiny abdomen is the first thing I need to address. Bringing my hand to my disheveled hair, I thread my fingers through the tangled strands, desperately trying to devise my plan of action. She sees my movement in the mirror and spins around to face me, panic and mortification heavy in her expression.
“Shower. Now. Talk. After,” I bark, the words coming out much gruffer than I intend.
Immediately, she hangs her head to hide her tears and crosses her arms across her chest to cover her boobs. “I’m sorry for this,” she croaks in between her sobs. “I just want to go home.”
Rushing to her side, I’m hesitant to touch her, not wanting to inflict any additional pain. I lift her chin gently, forcing her to look up at me. “Don’t apologize, sweet girl,” I whisper soothingly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about it. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Tenderly, I kiss each of her tear-stained cheeks before leading her by the hand over to the shower.
“The spray of the shower will sting too badly. It’s better to clean them with a washcloth and then alcohol,” she reasons, obviously having done this before. “I can take care of it, Madden.”
I stop mid-stride and turn to her, knowing damn well my eyes are full of pity—I can’t help it. “Okay, but please let me help you.”
With a slight nod of her head, I open the linen closet, pull out a couple of cloths, and guide her back to the sink. Wetting the first washcloth, I drop to my knees in front of her, putting me eyelevel with the lacerations. She keeps her arms tightly wrapped over her chest as I go to work, carefully cleaning up the red streaks from her bony rib cage and concaved stomach, which I notice aren’t all fresh, thus confirming this is a common occurrence. I bite my tongue to keep myself from commenting on her frailness, because I don’t want to tear her down any more than she already is at this moment. Instead, I make a mental note to feed her every chance I get.
After nearly fifteen silent minutes, all of the blood is wiped away and I grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet. Returning to my kneeling position, I peer up at her, making sure she’s ready for the burning sensation I know is about to come. Her eyes are closed tightly, and she’s chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Her helplessness and
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