Chapter 4 - Scars

Bella's POV

"I said watch!" James screamed at me and I opened my yes, I would have been begging him not to hurt me so much if I could have stopped screaming long enough.

From this new position I could see everything, just like he had promised, all the mirrors showed me every angle I chose to view. I turned my head to the side so that I would not have to see his eyes and watched the new angles of us I could now see. I was screaming and bleeding and it hurt soo much. It just wouldn't stop. Now, unlike before, I really did want to die. It was just too painful, and I don't mean that in a purely physical sense.

He growled and pulled out only long enough to spin me around and slam my back into the mirror. The mirror didn't break it cracked, and the now sharp edges of the glass pierced my skin as he tore my partially removed pants to allow himself access and forced himself inside me again. He looked into my eyes, a disgusting sinister look on his face and I felt as though my back were being shredded as he forced his way inside me, pressing me against the cracked glass over and over again.

This new position was far more painful and the only way I could make the pain of this position relent ever-so-slightly, was to place my hands on his shoulders and wrap my legs about his waist, to hold myself up somewhat, instead of having him treat me as a rag doll.

His lips descended on mine, muffling my unrelenting screams. But he didn't kiss me, he bit my tongue and lips, not quite hard enough to draw blood, but almost. James drew back and looked and my face once again, smirking as the burning tears make their way down my cheeks.

I sat up in my bed with a silent scream on my tongue. I blinked twice and as my dream faded my body began complaining, reminding me that it still hurt. It had been almost a week and it still hurt. No matter how hard I tried, I could not forget his face. That smirk was frozen into my mind, and it simply would not go away.

I reached over to my bedside table to retrieve the bottle. As I stretched my arm out my back stung more than usual. I had probably ripped the stitches sitting up again.

I swallowed a large mouthful of water and wiped the tears from my cheeks, the cool liquid calmed my sore throat somewhat.

I climbed slowly out of the bed, cringing at the pain the action caused. I needed to redress the wound before someone else arrived or else they would do it for me, and I hated people seeing my body. I hadn't even looked at my body since that night. But if I wanted to hide from myself forever I would have to let someone else see it again, so after retrieving the spare bandages and setting everything up, I walked over to the mirror in my room. I stopped in front of it and just stared for a moment before gaining the courage to remove the sheet I had draped over it.

I opened my eyes and saw my reflection. My face was covered in tiny cuts and large bruises, and all around my mouth was one large bruise. My eyes were red from crying and my hair had not been brushed in days. And a trail of scratches and bruises led from behind my ear to down my neck until it disappeared under the collar of my muddy-red pyjamas.

I slowly undid the buttons on my flannelette pyjama shirt and let it fall to the floor, revealing my heavily bruised shoulders and my arms which were lightly bruised and cut in paces, worst around the elbows and forearms. From my armpits to my waist was heavily wrapped in bandages, and a small patch was taped over my right collar-bone.

I allowed myself to get used to the sight of the damage before removing the bandages slowly. My entire body protested at my every move but I continued my task with a sort of morbid curiosity. Reaching around my body in such a way stretched my skin and made it hurt, everywhere, especially the spot in the middle of my back where I had torn my stitches.

With the bandages removed I could see the injuries on my chest and stomach. There were patches taped across my breasts where the I knew the scars ran deep. Around the edges of the absorbent fabric I could easily see the horrid multitude of colours making up the bruises that covered the entirety of my breasts. Underneath my breasts, right above where my ribs ended, where two rather nasty looking bruises in the shape of hands, one on either side of my body. There were other small cuts and bruises across the now exposed area, but my stomach seemed to have made it through the experience fairly well, compared to the rest of my body at least. However there was another small patch taped to my hip, clearly marking a rather damaged area, how damaged I did not know.

I turned around, exposing my back to the mirror, it took everything inside of me to fight down my fear and turn around. I silently gasped at the sight there, reminding me of the pain inside my throat. My back was covered in red lines that had been sewn up. There were so many, and they crossed over each other so much that in some way it looked as though it was just one big shape covering almost the entirety of my back. I recalled thinking that it felt as though the skin had been shredded off, and in some ways, it rather looked like it. Unlike other parts of my body the injuries looked as bad as they felt. Curiously a small patch up the side, next to where the scarring on my back ended was covered with the same cotton-like medical fabric. How could that be worse than the rest of my back? I thought before deciding I probably didn't want to know.

There was a small spot in the centre of my back, directly between my shoulder blades, from which a trail of blood ran down my back. The pain of reaching around to soak up the blood was excruciating. Once I had mopped up the blood, it continued to flow but I placed a small piece of the absorbent and protective fabric over the wound and taped it down in such a way as to keep some assemblage of pressure on the wound without touching it myself.

I stood up, knowing that if I didn't look now, I never would. And with that I slowly removed my pyjama pants. I was unable to wear underwear because the elastic would aggravate my injuries, so I stood naked before the mirror, noting the awful bruising on my inner thighs and the minimal cuts covering said thighs. there was some bruising on my legs here and there, but from the knee down I seemed to have little to no injuries, and my feet seemed fine, unlike my hands.

I let my hand brush gently against the skin on one of my breasts and the pain shot through me, announcing that it was far more sensitive that it looked. Not wanting to, but knowing I must, I ignored the pain and peeled off the tape holding in place the two pieces of medical fabric concealing my breasts. The scars were hideous and the skin had been stitched back together, my breasts themselves were rather colourful and there was not a patch of skin on them that was not bruised in some way.

Letting my hand drop, I slowly peeled back the protective fabric over the bone along my exposed hip. I froze when I saw what it had hidden. The scar was not a line, straight or jagged. It was not a pattern or symbol either. It was letters. James had carved words into my body. It was difficult to read from upside down but in the mirror I could see them backwards and they were easier to make out.

I was here first kid

My mind raced back to what he had said that night.

He moved his hand down to cut open the skin over my hip bone as he spoke again. "I want your boyfriend to know how I ruined you first every time he sees your body."

He had cut words into my body, so that Edward would not be able to bear looking at me.

"You are pathetic and afraid." He said slowly as he cut into me. "I want you to remember that every time you look at yourself."

I remembered the first deliberate cut he had made and with trembling hands I ripped off the patch that covered my collar-bone to see the words there.

You are a pathetic weak girl Bella

I was crying again and my breaths were deep and ragged as memories of that night continued to surface.

"And I want her to know she can never beat me."

I turned and ripped the fabric from my back and carved across the skin on my back, leading from the end of my ribs towards my shoulder were the confusing words.

You cannot win Alicia

That name. I remember that name.

"This is my game Alicia dear."

He called me Alicia, James had called me Alicia, but who was she?

Unable to take it any longer I recovered the mirror and climbed back into bed to hide under the covers from what was inside me head.

~SophieAngel69