Bruises

thrëë

One cannot be prepared for something while secretly believing it will not happen.

•nelson mandela•

I shuffled outside into the cold, the cold concrete beneath my feet seeping the warmth from them through my ballet flats.

My teeth chattered and I clenched them together, reminding me of how I had to clench my teeth, my hands and my eyes shut to deal with the pain.

I was shut from the world, and they couldn't help me anymore.

The first time the tap became a weapon, I could have gone to someone. My friend had noticed the bruises, the burns, and had asked me what happened; I told him I didn't know.

It kind of gave it away that it wasn't that I didn't know, it was that I didn't want to tell.

Two years later, my friend has left me, my parents have ignored me, and the world has shut me out.

Or maybe I ignored them, I left them, and I shut them out.

Either way, I'm alone, I thought as I trudged along the street to a small coffee shop. It was called chocacino, a cute little place decked out in pale greens, purples and browns.

Green, purple, brown.

It seemed like everywhere and everything was screaming at me and provoking my memories of the bruises. Green and brown in the beginning when they're all new and fresh, purple when they're old and tender.

I couldn't stand it, I thought, walking inside.

Plastered across the purple wall was a 'staff needed' poster, and that was generally what I was here for.

The lady at the counter smiled at me, a sympathetic looking smile. I pulled up the edge of my scarf, realising it had fallen to show a purple bruise around my neck.

"Can I help you?" She asked, her voice high pitched and grating.

I nodded softly. "Yes please. Uh..."

I paused.

I haven't asked for anything before.

"Yes, dear?" She said, her eyes inquiring and sweet-looking. They looked kind, sweet, happy.

"Can I have a job?" I blurted out.

She chuckled lightly, the kind of laugh that you would do if an old person attempted a joke. "Resume?"

"Doesn't the boss get that?"

"Sweetie, I am the boss."

"Oh." I slowly handed it over, my eyes lingering on my last name.

Collins.

The word that tied me to my hurtful brother, my ignorant parents.

She read it quickly, her eyes intent. I always watched people's eyes.

It relayed their emotions and thoughts the best, their feelings and dreams.

She nodded. "Artist?"

I nodded back.

She nodded again. "Well then. What size are you?

_

So she got a job, she is independent.

Or is she?

Comment below ^.^

Luv all mah munchkins! 'Til the next chapter,

_wolfbell