I trace the lines of purple and blue on my arms with my finger. The skin is black and blue and marked in jagged lines down the the base of my elbow like a bolt of electricity.
The pain is mostly subsided by the end of the week but still leaves ugly white scars surrounded by pinkish flesh. And as soon as one fades, another is given.
The creators are long red nails that send chills through my body each time I see them. The paint is a luscious red like her lips and the tips are pointed like the claws of a feline.
Those nails haunt my dreams, they slash out at me like an attack on a flightless bird with hollow bones. They leave hideous marks and scrapes, bloodied and blue.
I'm not allowed to go to school until the marks fade to pink, and am forced to wear a large black sweatshirt that belonged to my dad to cover the bad ones. No matter what the weather or season.
My mother's main rule is simple; if you don't tell, the less you'll have.
So I keep my mouth zipped tight. I plaster smiles, cover cuts, and pretend to laugh even if it's not funny. I keep my grades up, pay attention (mostly) and avoid sleepovers and play dates.
People may ask about my life at home and all I can say is;
"Great,"
For if I say anything else, I know those feline claws will come for me with the deafening roar of thunder booming in my ears.
Why haven't I run away? Called the police? Told someone?
Well the answer is simple.
I can't.
YOU ARE READING
Don't
Teen FictionScars are just the start of it. They run in jagged lines over my skin like lightning bolts. Each movement evicts more pain. But on the inside, my heart lays in shattered shards, blood staining the hollowness of my body. I'm not sure how much longer...
