His Rogue Luna

Chapter 12

(TW there is hints of a suicide attempt/ dark thoughts in this scene, there are no fine details. Some viewers may find triggering to skip the scene, skip the part that is between "____"  to continue on with the story)

Olivia

Once Caleb left, I slumped against the front door. Wishing for a new start where I'm not in danger all the god damn time. I've clearly failed at keeping my walls up. I have no recollection of the attack.

I was at Jasons house for crying out loud. In. His. Bed! 

I barely know him, and he seems to be obsessed. Don't get me wrong, he is attractive, and his scent is intoxicating, but this, this is too dangerous. It's as if he knows more than he's letting on, I can't risk it. 

I dragged myself up off the floor and walked towards my room. The house is completely dark, and there's no sign of my father, which is a relief. 

He is always in and out of the house, still no consistent routine aside when he is home. The time he wakes up is always the same.

I push my door open and head straight to the bathroom, eager to see the damage that is done. Carefully, I lift my shirt up and find one end to the bandage. 

Gingerly peeling it away from my skin, I successfully pull it off and toss the scraps in the bin, I look back at the gauze. There's dried blood that has attached itself to the material.

It was at least an hour of using a damp cloth, being dabbed on the gauze to peel it off. Considering it's on my back, it has been proven to be extremely difficult.

Once the dried blood is cleared away, I look closer at the damage. Large gashes in the form of a claw marking at least five inches down my back. 

The stitches are sewn in tight and clean. Hopefully, there's minimal scarring. The bruising is significant, though, dark purples and blues descending along my backside. 

'This is going to be a piece of work to deal with Fraya,' I linked. I know full well she isn't going to respond it has only been a few years.

_________________

Exhaling deeply, I stripped, turning the shower faucet on, and waited for it to heat up. Grabbing the flower scented body wash, I started to scrub. 

Memories of my past and the filth that seems to seep under my skin being, oh so present.

If I could have something sharp like a scalpel, I'd be peeling my skin off. The feeling of his hands never leaves. My thoughts never leave. 

The constant fucking torment when I'm on my own, for even just a second. It never leaves.

There is no pause button on life, or restarts. You just have to make do with what you got. But what if you physically can't?

 where am I meant to go if I'm constantly hiding from myself or the past. Not that I can fucking remember half of it. It always catches up or finds me.

The feeling of everything and nothing at once. I can't get help when I don't even know what is wrong.

The mental torment.

I just want it to end.
____________

The morning alarm is blaring, haphazardly I swing my arm out, knocking it off the bedside table. Begrudgingly I sat up stretching careful not to go too far out and pull the stitches.

Trudging to the bathroom, I see the mess of last night. The empty alcohol bottle and the mess of pills strewn everywhere. Grabbing the towel from the drying rack I toss it over the mess ignoring last nights feeble attempt.