Disclaimer: If I owned The Mentalist, I would feature an episode with Jane
suffering from allergies so he could feel my pain…so no I don't own the show.
One Important Thing
Her hands fisted into the bed sheets, her petite body contorting almost painfully. Her head lie on the pillow, her nose barely brushing against the damp cotton, as another hand slid up the pillow, wrapping her arm around it to clutch it tighter to her body. She gasped as a sob moved through her body, leaving spasms in its wake. Her mouth parted, a soft whimper breaking through. Barely heard even to her own ears. The sweat beading on the back of her neck began to trickle down slowly, sliding down the column of her neck and under her fabric nightshirt.
She moved onto her back, hand still holding onto the bed sheets, grasping onto them even tighter than before. Her body arched for a split second as her chest heaved, her eyes pulling forcefully shut as a saddening cry of emotional pain escaped her lips.
Her eyes opened, quickly opening and gazing at the white ceiling above her. Her chest continued to heave, up and down. Air moving in and out of her lungs as they were designed to. She blinked, lingering her eyes shut as she counted to ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
She didn't finish.
Her eyes opened once more as another cry left her lips. Her body coiled together, pulling her knees closer to her chest so she lay on her side in a fetal position. She wrapped her arms around her knees, wanting to hold onto something as the emotional scars came back to haunt her this very night. Her body moved, almost rocking herself in vain attempt to soothe herself, to calm her erratic breathing and heartbeats.
A sharp intake of breath and another spasm moved through her body.
And she was back where it all hurt the most.
She was only seventeen and acting as a mother to her three younger brothers. She did everything for them, protected them. Ever since their mother had died, she had placed that responsibility upon herself. Her father had taken it for a short while after her mother's untimely death, but he eventually lost all control and desire to care for his children. That made her 'parent'.
But no, that was not the main reason as to why her emotional trauma ran so deep.
Yes, her own father had hurt her repeatedly throughout her adolescent years. The beatings were unforgiveable, never would she be able to forgive him for that. At first it was just as emotional as it was physical, always hurting and leaving a mark behind. Eventually she grew used to it-emotionally. She began acting 'robotic' around the people she had once called friends. She laughed at the term. They all treated her differently after her mother died, it was only a matter of time before she had eventually started to take note of that.
All the looks, all the gestures.
All those meaningless hugs.
It all meant nothing.
"Why isn't dinner made?"
"I'm tired…"
"You fucking selfish bitch! That's not the real reason!"
She squeezed her eyes shut, shifting in her bed as she gripped onto the pillow tighter, her mouth parting and once more emitting a pitiful whimper. Her fingers dug into the fabric, attempting once more to pull the plush pillow closer to her body as a sense of comfort. A sense of protection.
"No! It is! Dad I swear to God I'm just ti-"
She remembered…She never was able to finish her sentence before she was backhanded across the mouth, sending her two feet backwards, falling painfully to the ground. Her head smacked against the cold white tile, her mouth opened and her eyes squeezed shut at the pain radiated from the back of her skull. She had clutched onto her chin, fingers moving upwards to feel the pained, split flesh of her lower lip. The blood came, slowly at first as it moved through the lack of a barrier. It smeared across her index finger, staining her finger red. She wrinkled her nose and looked down, her hand was now completely covered in the warm liquid. It seeped between her fingers, dripping down onto the clean floor.
"Go to your room," her father had growled, turning on his heel as he moved towards the stairs, not once looking back at his bleeding daughter, "Selfish bitch not worth anything," she heard him mumble. They always say, people are the most honest while drunk.
His baby girl. His beautiful baby girl sat there on the ground bleeding.
She never moved.
She curled up, pulling her knees to her chest, blood smearing across the denim jeans covering her legs. One hand lay splayed across the floor, leaving remnants of a bloody handprint. Her eyes slipped shut, her lower lip trembled, forgetting the pain. Wetness moved down her cheeks, falling into the corner of her mouth and running across her bloody lip.
"I wish you were here, mom, why did you leave me?" she spoke softly, "I wish dad was gone and you were here," her body spasms, one arm attempting to pull her knees closer to her body, "You would never hurt us. You would never hurt me."
Her shoulders shook.
He had died a week after that. Two scattered gunshot wounds to the back, causing a slow, painful death.
She found herself crying once more over what she had done.
It was her fault, she had granted her own wish. She took her father's life into her own hands and killed him. Two shots. Blood everywhere.
She jumped when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing. A soft gasp left her lips as she turned onto her back. Soft, tired eyes glanced down at her in a loving manner. The back of his hand brushing against the side of her face, a flinch escaping her body, not puzzling him. His thumb brushed over the apple of her cheek, slowly, softly, delicately.
She sat up, wrapped her arms around him. A sob moved through her body, shaking her entire frame. His arms snaked around her, holding her close to her body as she began to fist her hands into the fabric of his shirt. She buried her head in his chest, feeling more comfort almost immediately. His hands slipped underneath her shirt, running across the burning flesh of her back. For now he had ignored the uneven patches of skin, already knowing how she had acquired them so long ago. Right now, she needed his love.
The one important thing she had not received during her adolescent years.