Chapter 2 #2
My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe, my entire body twitching from both remembered trauma and pain.
I drag myself the rest of the way to the bathroom and take my shower while sitting on the tile floor.
It’s not the most comfortable due to having been kicked, whipped with a belt, and raped, but gradually I’m able to stand.
What I really need are pain meds, but I don’t keep anything stronger than acetaminophen, which is unfortunate.
My stomach rolls as I close my eyes, and I lean against the wall now that I’m finally on my feet. I breathe slow and deep, pumping body wash into my body exfoliating mitt to scrub my skin. I refuse to stop until I’m pink and I feel like I’m finally clean enough.
The truth is, that’s a lie. I never will feel as if I’m fully cleansed, but I can’t allow myself to make my skin bleed. Normal people don’t do that, and it’s just one more form of pain to hold onto while I detangle my hair and finish my shower.
I don’t feel as if I’m in my body as I dry my skin and perform my after shower routine, including brushing my teeth and mouth wash. Isn’t it pointless to use body oil and lotion to soften my skin when my life is over? Marriage to a don will shorten my lifespan.
After years living with my father, I know this.
My hair curls in soft waves around my shoulders, my makeup is perfect, but my head continues to pound as I stand naked in front of the mirror and try to move onto the next thing on my mental checklist.
“There is nothing you’ve survived that’s worse than this,” I whisper. “Remember your promise. Snap the fuck out of this, Rosa.”
I swallow down three more pain pills with a handful of water from the faucet, making a face because my throat is swollen and sore. I did my best to hide my bruising with color corrector and makeup, but it doesn’t change the fact that my body is all fucked up.
Walking gingerly, I stare at the dress hanging from the door in my bedroom.
My father thought of everything, even my clothing.
Pulling it off the hanger, I find appropriate undergarments for the dress also attached to the hook.
Gross. I don’t want to think about who went in my closet to find my sizes.
Every part of me feels violated as I pull on the high waisted underwear and corset instead of a bra.
I’m relieved to find the underwear isn’t a thong, because I wouldn’t be able to handle that right now.
The corset is meant to be worn under the dress, and actually feels good along my ribs.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re broken or cracked after the way I was treated earlier today.
Closing my eyes, I whisper a prayer as if it’ll help chase the endless sea of horror and despair away, but it doesn’t help at all.
My ribs are bruised underneath the corset, and they’re a red-purple. My ass is also red still from being belted across it, and there are painful welts that already hurt when I sit.
Holding up the dress, I roll my eyes. The florals that look beautiful on Vero are being forced on me today.
It’s tea length that’s strapless and pushes my tits up to the sky when I pull the stays in.
Yes, it’s a double fucking corset of sorts, though the one I’m wearing underneath makes my waist appear tiny.
The dark blue and red florals don’t look too terrible on my skin tone, but the length means I have to wear heels since you can see my feet. If it was floor length, I’d try my luck and wear flats. I manage to get dressed alone, and I make sure that my black heels are closed toed.
Somehow, the brutes in my home bruised my feet.
I bet they stepped on them while I was unconscious.
Swallowing hard, I walk to my tiny fridge to grab a water to help with the bile I’m tasting.
Yes, I am aware of the privilege I live in, but they’re all the trappings of a hellscape contrived to appear lavish and attractive.
The last thing I add to my outfit is a knife stuffed between my tits. I’m hopeful any guards who are responsible for searching me won’t attempt to stick their hands down my dress.
Unfortunately, the gun will probably be found, no matter where I attempt to hide it. I don’t think pissing my father off is worth the risk, not when I’m already as beaten down as I currently am.
Brushing my teeth for the second time, I fluff my dress afterward, checking for any imperfections or bruising. The dress is open at the back, but my hair covers most of it. Somehow, my father’s men managed not to bruise my shoulders, and any finger marks on my throat I was able to hide.
Papa would be pissed if I miss a single imperfection.
“Girl.”
Stepping out of the bathroom, I raise my brow at the man standing at my door. I wrack my mind for a name, and I can’t find it. Sometimes, the names manage to fade into the background when they’re a constant fixture at the house.
“Yes?” I ask, staying as far away as possible. These men have no respect for me, and I can’t have them fucking up my hard work. They all insist on pulling my hair, and that’s the last thing I need today.
“It’s time. Your father wants you downstairs.”
Nodding, I walk across the room, stopping outside of reach.