I have absolutely no idea where this came from, but … here ya go! WARNING: self-harm and janto. Disclaimer: I don't own.
The Dresses
And no, it's not what you think it is. This memory isn't one of Jack and I. Although there are at least three recorded instances of … what you were thinking of … and possibly a further four off the record instances, but I digress. The dresses I was thinking of – they were my mother's dresses. My Mam's. And they were so beautiful. But I'm telling it all wrong – a story's got to start at the beginning and end at the end. So here we go.
When I was small, they hated me. My parents, that is. You may wonder why, but I never did. I just accepted it – that's how life had always been for me. Rhi was the one who raised me, really. Well, as well as a ten year old could a five year old. It was good though – she was good. And I didn't mind the beatings so much when I had someone to cuddle when they stopped.
As I got older, they hated me more. You know, my parents. Because they noticed I was different – I was quiet, intelligent. Not like the rest of the boys in town – they preferred shouting and beating up the smaller kids. Kids like me. There was a time when I was constantly black and blue. I always remembered, though. I remembered exactly how I got each bruise, each cut, each broken bone. I remembered who gave them to me. Like an inventory. Because, I reasoned, if somebody found me – if somebody ever wanted to help me – then I could tell them exactly who hurt me and how. And then they would be punished accordingly. It made perfect sense to my ten year old mind. Now, not so much, but it's just one of those habits I never got round to kicking.
And then I got even older, and their resentment only grew. Because I was smarter than them, and they knew it. Because I just stood there and took the blows without showing any emotion on my face – I learnt to wear a mask pretty young, and it's strength only grew with age. Because I was different. And slowly, slowly, I started to see where they were coming from. I started to hate myself too. And too many of the cuts in my inventory were inflicted by my own hand. And it made me feel so wrong. That I was hurting myself. But I couldn't stop.
Tad used to yell at me for not having a girlfriend. He didn't understand the concept of waiting for 'the one'. There was a whole separate beating reserved for 'why are you such a fucking woman? Why don't you have a good fuck every now and again? Do you like men now? Is that it? Well I'm not having any of that shit in my house!' And it hurt. Not the blows – I'd long since got used to them. The words. They cut me deeper than my penknife did. Because they made me think that I was abnormal. That there was something wrong with me. And the penknife started working overtime.
I'm sure you're wondering what the dresses have to do with anything, aren't you? Well, they made me feel pretty. They made me feel right. Now, I know that makes me sound like some sort of freak, but think about it. Everything in my life was wrong, and they made me feel right. So why wouldn't I? And I remember that one time Tad came home, but I didn't hear him. I was in front of Mam's mirror. I was wearing the purple one – the one with the lace – and he came in. I don't think I've ever been so bruised in my life. I could hardly move for a week after that, but it sort of made me feel smug that he couldn't do anything to stop me.
It was only about a year after that that I ran away. And Torchwood came into my life. And Lisa. And, at the time, she was 'the one'. She was perfect. And then I killed her. Sorry if I've skimmed over this chapter of my life, it's just, I don't like to talk about it.
And then there was Jack. And he made everything better. He fixed everything, because that's what he does. And now there's nobody to judge me, nobody to hurt me, and nobody to hold me back. He's perfect.
And it's just an added bonus that he thinks I look hot in a dress.
Thoughts?
xx