Beyond the Pale Contest
Title: Stigmata
Pen Name: WayBeyond
Characters: Bella, Phil
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight, no copyright infringement intended
***WARNING, THIS STORY CONTAINS INSINUATED SCENES OF RAPE AND ABUSE, AND IS INTENDED TO BE DISTURBING. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS WILL OFFEND OR UPSET YOU.***
Image that Inspired You: #4
To see other entries in the Beyond the Pale Contest, please visit the C2 page:
w ww fan fiction .net/community/Beyond_the_Pale_Contest_Entries/83159/
~X~
I looked down at my hands and panicked. Not again.
Holding them both steady, I let the blood pool while my eyes searched for something to wipe away the vital fluid. It overflowed my cupped palms and dripped between my fingers, making burgundy polka dots on the wooden floor.
Please don't let him walk in now. I hoped and prayed that this time he wouldn't come in and find me.
I wasn't sure how I felt about the bleeding. I knew I wasn't the only one who lived this way, but I was certain they didn't all spontaneously bleed from their palms. Sometimes, I thought of it as a sign that Jesus hadn't completely abandoned me, but under the circumstances I felt less than holy.
I looked down at the blood bubbling up without any visible source—no broken skin, no scars. Just like the rest of my pain, there was never a wound that you could see; the damage only showed on the inside. The only evidence was the bloodstains, and I wasn't sure exactly what they proved.
The stigmata always reminded me of the first time...
There was no expecting that kind of thing; I'd had no warning of what was about to come.
Mom had disappeared. Where? I didn't know, but that wasn't unusual. She was normally gone for hours, and it was commonplace for her to saunter in the following morning, high or hung over. I'd gotten used to her ways over the years. I didn't start worrying until she passed the 48-hour point, and I'd learned to fend for myself from an early age.
My mother and my good-for-nothing step-father were incapable of looking after themselves, let alone me. I was the only one who ever thought to get supplies other than beer or drugs. There again, I was the only one in the household who didn't think that so long as that was all we had, we'd be fine.
I'd been out to the store, and went to put the bag on the counter just as Phil had walked in to grab himself another beer. I'd tripped over nothing, and the bag split; the contents emptied themselves over the counter and the floor.
Phil cursed. Things were tight since he'd been out of work, and we couldn't afford to waste anything. Luckily, nothing broke or spilled, and I'd tried to grab as many of the groceries as I could. I was surprised when Phil had took the time to bend down and pick a couple of boxes up for me.
Later, I really wished that he'd been his usual self; I wished that he'd just wandered back to sit on the sofa and stared at the baseball game on the TV. I wasn't that lucky; I never was.
"Hey, Bella," he'd teased, holding up a box of tampons. "Are these for you? I know your Mom isn't bleeding right now."
I'd blushed in mortification and snatched the box out of his hands. That had been my first mistake. I tried to escape out of the room, only to be yanked back by my wrist.
"Get back here, you goddamn little bitch." Phil had pulled me closer to him so he could stare into my eyes, his own wide and furious. I tried to yank my hand away, but that only enraged him further. "I'm gonna give you a lesson in manners, before you end up like your fucking whore of a mom."
He pulled me out of the kitchen and into the hall.
"No!" I'd struggled, but he'd dragged me upstairs by my now raw and red wrist. "No! Mom!"
I tried to wriggle free as he threw me on the bed, but he was too strong and too heavy...
...
Eventually, the fight in me burned itself out and I lay quiet and still. This wasn't me. He wasn't doing this. I tried to disconnect myself from what was happening, and so my mind wandered away from its body.
His animalistic grunting suddenly ceased, and my mind snapped back.
Was he finished?
Phil down looked at my inert form with confusion on his face. I couldn't look at his face for more than a second, and so I averted my gaze. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of scarlet.
We both stared in horror as blood began spilling over my pink and white spotted duvet in copious quantities. I looked at my hands and wondered what the hell he had done to me. The look he gave me told me that he was thinking the same.
It wouldn't stop. Red gushed from my palms and seemed to spatter everywhere; both Phil and I panicked. He got up and ushered me, partially dressed, into the bathroom, holding his shirt under my hands to stop the blood staining the carpet.
That time it had stopped him. He'd shown concern and helped clean up, even if it had been with the intention of covering his own tracks. That was rare; it didn't always happen like that.
A good half hour later, the bleeding ended. That was a lot of blood; I wasn't sure I'd even had that much in my body to start with.
When Mom had eventually come home, I was upstairs in the shower scrubbing myself, trying desperately to get myself clean. I stayed in there long after the last traces of blood had swirled down the plug hole, but I still felt soiled.
Mom found Phil shoving the red stained duvet cover into the washing machine, and asked what had happened. As it was, Phil had the perfect alibi; he'd simply pointed to the abandoned box of tampons in the middle of the kitchen floor. Mom accepted his explanation without question or suspicion.
We were both scared, but the horrific first experience hadn't deterred Phil from trying it a second time—or a third. It soon became apparent that the blood went hand-in-hand with what he did to me; neither of us knowing or understanding the reason why.
It happened every time—sometimes before, sometimes after, more often during.
Most of the time, he would climb off of me in frustration, and then either leave the room or start rocking. At other occasions, it would only spur him on, and make him more angry and violent. Sometimes the blood was a blessing and sometimes a curse.
Whether it was a message or protection for me, or a signal to Phil, the blood and my punishment were connected.
I stared again at my stained hands and silently willed the bleeding to stop.
I'd heard Mom and Phil arguing and a door slammed. I assumed it was my stoned Mom that had left; the blood was proof in favor of that theory.
I stayed quiet and motionless in my room, not daring to head off to the bathroom in case he heard me. Instead, I laid an old sweater in my lap and allowed it to become saturated.
I whispered my prayers while I sat, pleading for this time not to mean that...
I heard a creak from downstairs and jumped in fright. I held my breath, in case the sound of air leaving and entering my mouth might alert him of my presence. Please, no.
Another creak—this time on the stairs; I began to rock and my prayers became more urgent. His feet were outside my door. Salty tears rolled down my cheeks and joined the blood on my burgundy-soaked top.
The handle turned and the door slowly creaked open.
My eyes met Phil's, and we both looked in understanding as he saw me sitting cross-legged on the bed.
The blood was a sign. Phil's path to hell was paved with it.
He came over to me, and I looked up at him with wet and resigned eyes. Grabbing my palms roughly, he looked at the blood pouring from them; it spilled over and onto his fingers.
I sobbed and lay back, praying for it to be over quickly.