Don't Touch Her

Chapter Fifteen

Clara and I had left soon after.
Dominic watched me with concern as we went out the doors.

I hadn't answered him, just stood there quietly, shivering, as he led me inside, his hand hovering near me.

Once we got back to the house, I went straight to my room, closing the door, wanting to sleep.

Clara knocked softly and cracked the door open. "Violet?" She said. When I didn't answer, she opened the door wider and walked in, sitting on the edge of my bed.

"Is everything okay?" She asked.
"I'm just tired," I said, which was the truth, but not the entire truth.

She rested a hand on my shoulder. I flinched, jerking my shoulder back. She withdrew her hand.

"... Do you want to talk about it?" She asked slowly.

I glanced at her, shaking my head.

She sighed quietly, "I... If you need to, you can. You understand I'm here for you, right?"

I nodded. "I'm just tired," I repeated, hoping she would leave me alone this time.

She nodded after a moment. "I'll leave you to sleep then." She got up and closed the door.

The small lamp next to my bed was the only light in the room. I stared at it, looking at the small curves and dots decorated over the body. The lines were blue, like cerulean.

Ethel said cerulean was the color of the ocean. Her favorite color. She said the air smelled like salt, "a briny mist, and the earthy scent of seaweed."

I had never seen the ocean, but I wanted to someday. I had decided since I was little.

"The ocean is a vast expanse of blue, almost mesmerizing with the waves that ebb and flow," Ethel had said.

"My mom took me when I was little. We sat on the sand as the sun set. My mom helped me make a sandcastle out of an old ice cream bucket she had."

"What does ice cream taste like?" Clara had asked. That day, we were both assigned to Ethel.

She thought for a moment, "ice cream... ice cream is sweet and creamy, and it melts in your mouth. It's refreshing, perfect for hot days like today. Sometimes, they can taste fruity, like mango or strawberries, or minty-"

"Like toothpaste?" A girl had asked.

Ethel chuckled, "no, not like toothpaste... well, maybe a little bit."

The girl grimaced.

"Ice cream is very good... I wish I could let you girls try it," she smiled softly.

We weren't allowed sweets.

I turned my head from the lamp to stare at the door, closing my eyes to try and fall asleep, but nothing worked.

Finally, I threw back the blankets and walked down to Clara's bedroom. I knocked, and she let me in.

"Sara," I glanced at her. "Hurt... me," I struggled to say. "For talking."

She stared at me and then took my hands and squeezed them tight. "I understand... It'll be okay, alright? Let's talk about it?"

I nodded. We sat on her bed and talked. Not very many words were spoken, but she understood. She had seen what happened. She nodded when I couldn't speak, squeezing my hands, letting me know it was okay.

My shoulders, as well as many other places on my body, had become a sensitive spot for me.

At some point during the recollection, we both had laid down and had fallen asleep, both on our separate ends of the bed. This alone felt wrong. But we weren't there at that orphanage anymore. We don't have to follow those strange rules anymore. We can bend them.

We knew this, we knew there was no one there to hurt us if we did something wrong, but there was always this certain panic waking up in the morning. Always at seven sharp as we had done for years, always perfect beds with not a single crease in the sheets.

We knew the counselors weren't there, but fear always set in. Did I wake up in time? Are my sheets perfect? Am I clean and presentable? Am I allowed to eat? What are my chores? Who am I assigned to?

Will I be hurt today?

Always, always, always.