Page 2 of Eternal
“You’re a woman now,” he says, pulling away and putting his pants back on.
Not a kid, I’m awomannow.
I close my eyes again, and I’m somewhere far away, somewhere where no one can hurt me, where I don’t have to be this girl. But when I open my eyes again, I’m still here, still in this room, still trapped.
The door closes behind him, and I can finally breathe again. I can finally come back even if I don’t want to. I wish I could stay where I’m notme,where I’m nothisanymore. Maybe one day, I won’t open my eyes at all. Maybe one day, I’ll be far enough away that I’ll never have to.
I lay there in silence and darkness, hearing his footsteps fade down the hall. I can almost hear the sound of his cross jingling against his chest, and I feel it all over again on my face. I used to wonder what it meant for him to wear a cross when I came to this house. Was it really about faith or about tradition?
Because the way he treated me… that was never sacred, that had nothing to do with God. But I don’t care about that anymore.
Keep daydreaming.
I’m still here.
I close my eyes again, but the door is locked, and I can’t find a way out.
I stumble out of bed, my limbs heavy, so heavy it hurts. My feet drag across the floor, rage and pain spiraling in my chest, but it’s not enough to make me move faster. The small old bathroom in my room feels miles away, but I force myself forward, one step, then another. I don’t care if I’m tired, I need it.
I need something.Anything.
The door’s still locked, and I need it gone, I need it all gone, the weight of it, the filth of it all.
So, I take the knife.
Three cuts on my thigh, left, then right.Purification, I tell myself, redemption carved into skin, I continue convincing myself.
The blood flows, slow and warm, tracing lines of crimson forgiveness down my legs. I don’t think about it, I just do it.
One, two, three.Deep.
The sting is nothing, and the ache means nothing to me. So I press harder, as if I can carve out the memories he left behind.
His hands, his words, the cross around his neck.
Maybe he was right, maybe I need this. “This is thewill of God, little one.”
The will of God. Because I survived when I shouldn’t have.
But it doesn’t stop, it never stops. The pills sit there, silent witnesses to my failure, Oxy, Xanax, little white promises.
I swallow one, two, three. “She’s not me,” I whisper, trying to reassure myself.
One punch with my fragile bones against the glass.
The girl in the mirror, the one who can’t stop, who can’t let go…she’s weak, she’s dirty, she’s notme.
But she’s still there, her bloodied hands aremine, her empty eyes aremine.
I don’t want her to beme.
I smear the blood across my face, trying to erase her, to bury her beneath the red mask.
Why do I see her, this broken, ruined girl, and want to laugh?Pathetic.
GET AWAY!
I punch the mirror again, but her reflection doesn’t crack. It stares back, mocking me.
