And then there was the darkness.
It consumed her, enveloped her soul. She never knew when it would hit. Something as simple as holding a cup of coffee, what was once a pleasant comfort was now a painful reminder of other times she had felt heat against her skin. A bump in the road, typical and uneventful, now sent her back to the times she was bound and gagged and held against her will. She could feel the rough carpet of the trunk floor as it ground into her skin with every stop and turn the car made. Sirens had her on full alert. They drew attention naturally but now every time one would sound she would find herself outside the beach house with all eyes on her. Dozens, hundreds of eyes, cruel and accusing, would taunt her. Searching for every scrape, cut, and burn on her skin, those eyes were relentless. Everyone could see her failure as a cop, as woman. She hadn't been able to protect herself. She was weak and now everyone could see what she had tried so hard to deny. She wasn't invincible. She wanted to hide, to crawl under her covers forever. . . But the squeak of a mattress.
And then there was the helplessness.
The countless times she tried to fight and failed, it tormented her now. She could feel his hands on her as they roamed her flesh. She could taste the blood her in mouth from the times he had hit her. She could feel the sting in her eyes from her tears, the heat that radiated off of the metal he held just close enough for her to feel the burn without actually making contact with her skin. She could feel the rope that had long since left her wrists raw as she struggled against the binds when the metal finally seared into her delicate flesh. She screamed.
And then there was the loneliness.
She couldn't make eye contact. She had never felt so helpless as she watched The Beast desecrate an innocent woman right in front of her while she sat tied to a chair. She had been forced to look her in the eyes, to see her pain, to see her terror, her loss. It broke her. She would never get those images out of her head. She saw them every time she tried to connect with another human being. She wondered what people saw when they looked at her. She looked at herself in the mirror, feeling detached and vulnerable. This wasn't her. She didn't recognize this woman. She didn't know how to be her, how to live without what she once was. She turned away. How could she face anyone when she couldn't even face her own reflection.
And then there was the hopelessness.
She always told victims that they could get their lives back. She had seen people regain some sense of normality, but more often that not she saw people lose what little control they had left. She saw people cry and crumble. She saw people lose their jobs, their families, drop of out school, lose their homes, move away and become a hermit. She saw people drink.
And then there was her.
She had done this before. She had gone to counseling. She had ground out every detail of her attack until her words started to lose their meaning. She wrote in journals, went to group, did deep breathing exercises until she could fall asleep. She had done the work and only then was she able to say that she could live with it. God, that fucking killed her. She didn't want to live with it, couldn't live with it for another God damned second. She rolled up her sleeve and stared at her marred flesh. Cigarette burns danced along her skin in some demented tango that would forever serve to remind her of her own helplessness and pain. She couldn't look at them anymore, wouldn't look at them anymore. With a sob, she picked up the blade and pressed it against her skin.
And then there was the silence.
Not sure if this is a oneshot or a full story. I would like to finish up the ones i have in progress before I start something new. Let me know what you think.