Rated: 13+ · Non-fiction · Dark · #2225813
This is a little speck of how I would think before I stood up to my abusers. 6-25-2020.
When I looked up at my ceiling waking up in the middle of the night, my mind wandered. Was I finally waking up from a bad dream?
I pinched myself to see.
Sadly, I still lived in the disgusting apartment, with all the most abusive people in my life, scars on my arms and legs, and in my mind.
I walked out of my room, struggling slightly to get off of my bed. I had my phone in hand, listening to the soft snores of my beloved as I muted myself to go in the bathroom.
I looked in the mirror, I stared at the dents and stress wrinkles in my face, the bruises surrounding my eyes, and the bags underneath them, and then is when I realized: I was still home.
I couldn't help but to cry softly, surely not awaking my abusers, or my young niece. They didn't deserve my tears, yet here I was, letting them flow, because of them. The lying, the terror, the fright, the bruises, the emotional scars, everything. It all came down in one moment, flushing my entire body in rage, and I thought to myself, "It's over."
I walked back into my room, crawled onto my bed, plugged my phone back in, unmuted myself, before curling around my love's gift to me for Valentine's day, soon I drifted into a light sleep, knowing what needed to be done.