I hate it. Every day she comes with more scars. It's killing her. She's killing herself. But even more than that, it kills me to see her do it to herself. Even if i say that everything is going to be all right, she still goes, and she'll do it again.
She'll go home.
And his drunken hands, the same hands that have touched bottle after bottle, smoke after smoke, are shaking with anger when she arrives.
And those hands, furious hands that have hurt her day after day, night in, night out, will do it again. Slap her, punch her, push her, shove her, kick her, smother. The hands that leave scars everywhere, all over her. But you wouldn't know it. She hides them. Long sleeved shorts, no matter the temperature. But believe you me, they're there. They loom in the shadows, the crevices, the creases, of her skin.
They spot a purple and blue hue at her neck, and dot a deep blue across her shoulders. They spiral with cuts and scrapes a repulsing red all down her rib cage, into her stomach, where they become more sparse. Then cuts, now a dark brown, except the fresher ones, stripe her lower back. Then, the most heart wrenching of all, a scar that's around eighteen inches long, now a deep green, right across her shoulder blades where he striked her with a red-hot fireplace poker.
And it's horrendous.
And it breaks my heart.
And she won't get help.
She lets him destroy her.
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copyright 2011 Sulfiric Romance