:)

Chapter 7

Scar tissue is fascinating. It's how your body heals, sewing its self-up, patching up the broken: a form of concealment. Yet, it never looks the same. It may blend or fade after a while, but it never truly disappears.

In the unlikely world that I survive this I would have another scar on my stomach. Silver and twisting, highlighting the curves of my skin, flowing in a line of asymmetric jags until eventually it meets the ridges of my ribs.

But it won't survive this. I can't. Because I don't have a plan for after.

I just have a plan for now: die.

The word death is fascinating, well, not the word itself. The concept of it. Its hauntingly beautiful, the idea that all we are insignificant creatures running the slow race to finale. It doesn't make sense to be scared of death. why be terrified of something you can't change? you may as well accept your fate. That's what I'm doing. Right here, right now.

I know that I'm accepting it, because I'm sure if I hold a mirror up or maybe if I experience the out of body experience that scientists marvel over, I will have the face. The same face she wore, when she knew that giving up was the only option.

I know that face in the same way I know how to breathe. It's always there, wither I'm aware of it or not. The abnormal look of relaxation, the lowering of eyebrows and a sad smile. She wore it that day, when a knife was held to her throat and it rained crimson.

His fingertips were ice on my arms, I can remember. Each connection of our cells followed by goosebumps on my skin. He steadied the knife in my hand, encircling his large hands against mine. It was then, in that moment when she let out cry. Perhaps because she knew what was about to happen.

But I can remember that cry, dark and brimming with unspoken emotion. Terror and unyielding fear lacing every decibel of sound. her earlier cries that were directed at herself were feeble in comparison in this screech for her children.

"no, no. you can't" she had pleaded, no longer focusing on herself. She had somehow managed to sit back up, the pools of blood in the floor, soaking her jeans. And her hair a starting to matt from the blood.

It was those words that caused the man's smile to deepen, wilder more ferocious . The crinkles in his cheeks filled with something- something deadly and dangerous.

He had dropped my wrist, clutching his own hands together, before stretching them out and cracking his knuckles. He had looked as though he were preparing for a race.

He walked up to her, pushing her down with the tip of his boot, until her knees dropped and she was sat on her feet in a pleading manner.

"actually you will find that I can" he spat at her venomously. He was met with a yelp and his foot collided with her body once more.

Kicking her. I hate kicking things.

I hate it

hate it

hate it.

Weaponizing the gift of walking to cause pain. If it's a fair fight, it's tolerable, but kicking someone while their down? That's cowardice.

So the man lives in in my head as a coward, he always will. I chuckle lightly at the thought, my slowly faltering breathes make the sound come out raspy .

'always'.

Always is useless when you're on your death bed. Always becomes very little when you put a timer on your life. For me always will be over soon.

The taste of rain hits my tongue as the clouds fall down on me. Their grey tastes acidic and laced with factory air, and their speed causes the pressure in my stomach to grow. The small but fast droplets consuming me. I wonder how long before I can call it pain.