Blanchefluer the Broken Fae

chapter 1

"Stitches run up my back, down my arms, and across my legs.

It's as if I'm sown together like a raggedy doll.

Like an old cloth animal you once loved so much, but now simply sits, rotting away in the depths of your cottage.

But that's where I feel safe the most.

In side my little cabin with only my family, my dozens of younger brothers and sisters, fellow orphans, given almost the same cards I was dealt. Except they are normal.

Perfectly normal.

I however am not.

How would it feel to wake up at least once a week with another scar?

Another cut?

Another fresh wound?

And then, while the blood seeps from my arms, I rush to the orphanage nurse who stitches up my arms again.

They say when I was little I would begin crying unexpectedly.

They would come by my side only to find a cut or scrape on my knee , even if I had only been sitting there, doing absolutely nothing. Somehow I would hurt myself.

Once I was so scared of being injured so I locked myself in my room. I sat there for an entire day. The nurse smacked my door frantically, begging me to come and open the door, but I refused.

I was sitting down when it happened. The nurse was screaming and the room was shaking with her distressed cries.

As I looked down to my hand a stinging sensation started. The stinging became a burn and I felt as if my hand would fall off. I clenched my teeth and tears rolled from my eyes.

The skin on the top of my hand began to turn red. The skin split open and a gash the size of a butter knife appeared. Somehow. Someway.

I remembered almost laughing.

I finally knew I wasn't insane.

The nurse said I was hurting myself.

The kids called me "witch", " rag doll", "waddles", or "stitches."

But now I finally knew It wasn't me.

It wasn't my fault.

At that moment, only at the age of eight, I promised to keep this secret to myself. No one else would believe me unless I gave proof, and I didn't want any more proof or scars or stitches.

Then I opened the door and the nurse stumbled in. They took away the lock on my door, and moved me to a room with a window so they could get in two ways if needed. To my dismay with each few years the new cuts and scars became more common, the stitches became more frequent, and the wounds got deeper.

Eventually, as time went on the orphans I grew up with were adopted or moved away. The perfect ones were given a perfect home, but I was a rag doll, a witch, a limp.

No one wanted the stitches or the girl that came with them so I here I am."

I wrote the words down on a leather journal that Mrs. Hakrate had given me for my birthday. I sighed. It felt so relieving to get that off my chest. Even if i was the only one who would ever read it. Then I shoved it under my mattress so none of the orphanage employees or one of my 'little siblings' would find it. I extinguished the dim candle' s light I had been writing under and curled up in my bed.

After writing my first insert I couldn't help but wonder the very question that had been haunting me for years.

How had these scars appeared?

Sometimes I wanted to run off. Find someone with answers, but that takes courage. That means I have to leave the orphanage, and behind these four walls is a dangerous, dangerous place to be.

The last thing I need in my life was trouble.