Chapter 14
There’s water running in the background from the bath I’ve just started for myself. Apart from that, the only other sound I can hear is the elementary beating of my heart.
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but the scars my mother gave me this morning.
The left side of my face is a splendid shade of crimson, and is swollen – albeit a little less than it was a few hours ago. There’s a gash on my right cheek – smaller than half an inch, Mave had said. It didn’t require stitches, thankfully, but it still hurt like a bitch.
I swallow, and my gaze falls lower, to the untidy yet stark finger imprints on my neck. They don’t hurt, per se, but they are so glaringly obvious that it makes my eyes sting.
They are jewels of my mother’s rage, these scars. They are a warrior’s proof of victory. My victory against her cruelty.
I take a step back, and then look at the bruise that covers most of my stomach. It’s…ugly; deep to the point where it looks violet under my bathroom lights. My ribs still ache if I move too much, but it isn’t anything a warm bath can’t fix.
At least that’s what I told Mave.
Mave…
My God, he’s been heaven-sent. He spent the entire day by my side – like he always does after these…
incidents. From disinfecting my gash, icing my face and stomach, giving me an ample dose of pain meds so that I could sleep most of the initial impact off, to quite literally feeding me lunch and dinner, he did it all.
And, as embarrassed as I am to admit it, he also helped me take a dump and a few pisses throughout the day.
None of this is his job. Hell, none of this is even supposed to happen.
But, even if it does – which it clearly does – he doesn’t deserve to be the one to pick up my pieces and make me whole again.
He’s so much better than this; so much better than the mess he’s gotten himself into.
But I’m selfish. I can’t ask him to walk away.
I need him, even though it isn’t fair to him. Still, I need him.
He wasn’t ready to leave me, but I’d forced him out of my room; all but ordered him to go home and get some rest.
“I can sleep here,” he’d argued.
“On the floor, or on the bed?” I’d asked.
His eyes had gone dark, then. He knew he couldn’t share the same room with me, let alone the same bed. He knew what he’d end up doing if he decided to stay, and how it’d affect our rapport and friendship.
With me asleep and on painkillers, it was okay. But when I wasn’t high on them, things could go very differently, especially with how much he cares and wants to be there for me.
“I’ll be back early, then,” he’d told me.
“You’ll be back at 8, like your new routine, and not a second before that,” I’d said firmly. “You’ll go home and get some much-needed sleep, Maverick Constance, or I swear to God I’ll rain all my damn rage on you. Do you fucking hear me?”
He’d pretended to appear pissed, but had eventually sighed and relented. He’d made me promise not to open my door for anyone, to which I’d had no issues in agreeing.
“I’ll text you as soon as I’m here,” he’d stated. “And if you’re up by then, just text me back so that I know you’re okay.”
“Okay.”
He’d given me his usual, assessing once-over, placed a kiss on my forehead, and then walked out of my room.
That was an hour ago, and I’ve spent every minute since then telling myself that I’ll get into the bath and try to relax my sore muscles a little. But I haven’t exactly done that yet. All I have done is get further acquainted with the bruises on my body.
I grip the white marble countertop and bow my head. The ridiculous excuse of a bun that I’ve tied my hair into, flops to the side, making me laugh. A little at first, but then I’m full-on shaking with laughter. I can’t help it; I’m snickering senselessly.
The stretch of my mouth brings cutting pain to my entire face, but that doesn’t stop me.
I look at myself in the mirror again, and then laugh harder. “This is who you are,” I tell my reflection. “This is who you fucking are, Cignette.”
Tears begin to run down my broken face as I bend forward when my hilarity grows in its intensity. I just…laugh, and laugh.
“This is who she made you to be…” I whisper, then snort in laughter. I try balancing myself as I straighten, but end up stumbling and falling backwards.
I’m on the floor now, cross-legged, and as the enormity of what I’m doing, of where I’m letting myself go, sets in, I place a hand over my mouth and start crying. I close my eyes, take in a loud breath, and continue to cry.
I cry, because it’s so hard to numb the pain, yet so easy to let it take over.
I cry, because I hate my mother for being the way she is. For doing to me what no mother should do to her child.
And I cry, because I know I’ve won, and yet, I know that I’ve also lost.