Alright, I'm warning you guys now, this chapter gets a little intense. We're dipping into Little Toy Guns territory and there are mentions of abuse. Just forewarning.

And I apologize in advance. This chapter was designed to break your heart. :(

Violet's Pov:

It's been two weeks. Two weeks which seem like the happiest I've ever been. All to be ruined by one moment. I don't even understand what I've done wrong! I never do, but it always comes back at me. It's always my fault.

The coffee table has been flipped over and a lamp now resides on the ground. Glass is shattered all over the floor in the living room. Drops of blood can also be found amongst the jagged shards. It sticks out like the flame of a fire in darkness, the bright red against the light coloring of the wooden floorboards. A trail of droplets leads all the way to my bedroom door. These are all things that can be cleaned up and thrown away before my mom gets home. But I can't tell her. I can never tell her or everything will just be brought down on me again. This will all be over and everything will disappear like it never happened. Washed away like writing in the sand as waves crash over the shoreline. Words that disappear without a trace.

But there are some words that never leave. Words that are embedded in my head, not a single one missed. Things that would always be remembered because not only were they inserted into my mind, but now they've been branded into my skin. The tears in my eyes slowly fall down the sides of my face much like the blood that slides down my right arm as I sit inside my closet with my back up against the wall. It's a bit dark because the doors are partially closed, but there's light that breaks through the gaps that allow me to stare at the two long gashes that run down my upper forearm.

My hands are stained in a light red color from holding the wound down to stop the trickle of blood. It's mostly stopped now, but I don't really care. It doesn't even hurt much. How can it, when the pain I feel inside is so much worse? There's also a numbing pain in my right side. I'll probably have a few bruises that'll make an appearance by tomorrow. But I can't think about that when words like regret, liability, and mistake constantly run through my mind.

This only makes me cry harder as I bury my face in my hands. I'm trying not to make any noise because if my dad hears me he'll start yelling again. Probably telling me to "shut the fuck up", or to "get over it". I don't even care if he hits me. It's not the physical blows that hurt, it's the berating. The words always hurt more than a punch to the chest, or a kick to the side, or the stinging sensation in my arm. No matter how long they stay away they always reappear sooner or later. Lurking in the back of my mind, waiting for a chance to resurface and break me down from the inside out.

Through blurred eyes, I can see through the opening of the door and look across the floor to see my black and white notebook a few feet away. It's not even worth it, I couldn't write anything down even if I wanted to. Nothing would come because right now I just feel broken. It's not worth it to write. It's not worth it to walk. All I can do is sit here and wait for everything to become numb until I can no longer feel any emotion because everything is so fucked up. But it's fine, the words will come later. They always do.

My knees are pressed against my chest with my arms wrapped around them and I bury my face in them. I just wish I knew what I did wrong.

I literally walked through the door after school and everything just went downhill the moment a stepped into the house. My dad started yelling at me after he asked me something about us not having any more beer in the fridge, but I couldn't respond. I always turn completely mute whenever he's in the room, which he assumes I do by choice so it only angers him.

I was grabbed by the collar and slammed into the wall before he forcefully grabs my arm and shoves me to the floor. He starts going on a rant about how it's just like me to pull some stupid shit like this. I assume this is the alcohol talking and I guess to some extent withdrawal if we didn't have any more in the house. But he starts throwing empty beer bottles that shatter once they meet the wooden floor. One hits a glass flower vase and they both break on contact.

Large fragments of glass fall to the floor. He picks up some of the larger pieces and starts throwing them in my direction as he shouts profanities and saying how I was just a mistake. I try and block the projectiles from hitting my face and hold up my right arm to protect my eyes. I can feel the sharp edges pierce my skin and I've got two cuts going down my arm as blood starts to seep out. Don't fight back. Just don't fight back. That's the only thing in my head that I can hear over the sound of my thundering heartbeat. Just don't fight back.

Once it stops I'm lucky I don't have any cuts or bruises on my face and that my glasses have gone unscathed. That's a lot harder to cover up than damage done to my arms and legs.

My dad runs out of things to throw and he staggers as he tries to walk forward resulting in him tripping over the lamp cord that gets caught on his foot. This causes the lamp in the living room to fall over, much like a tree does when it's cut down. Honestly, it would have been kind of funny if I wasn't at the end of his tyranny. He's frustrated by this and before I know it he flips the coffee table over. During this outburst, I scramble to my feet and make my way down the hall to my bedroom before he can do anything else and I hurriedly lock the door as the tears start to spill.

I've been sitting inside my closet for over an hour now because I'm too scared to leave. My racing heart has finally calmed down and I've been listening to him clean up the house for the past forty-five minutes, but the tears still continue to drip down and soak my shirt.

I've only felt this hopeless one other time. Back when I was about twelve maybe thirteen, my dad had beaten me hard enough to break my ribs. I had bruises ranging from purple to black that coated my midriff and smaller ones that ran down my arms. He got mad and I had gone off at him because I was tired of his shit. But that's when I learned never to fight back. It only made things worse.

I used to have a protector. Someone who was there for me through everything, even when mom and dad weren't. But now that they're gone I have to face the dragon alone. My knight died in battle when I was ten leaving me to hold down the fort by myself and that's something I'll never get used to. It left a hole in my heart like no other. Now it seems like all the demons in my life are free to roam across the land because I'm not strong enough to defend the castle walls on my own.

I feel my fists clench and I kick the closet door open because I'm so frustrated right now. Even if I tried to go against my father I couldn't because I don't have a voice. Who would my mom believe, her husband who has authority over the whole house or her daughter who can't even express what happened? Honestly, I think my mom would believe me if I wrote what happened down, but I'm pretty sure she's afraid of my dad too.

Sometimes I think it's not really money problems and she just works three jobs just to get away from my dad. I hear them fight all the time whenever they're at the house together when my dad is actually conscious enough to start an argument instead of being passed out on the couch. Those are usually the nights I find myself wandering the city streets wanting to escape yelling that rattles the whole house.

I really want to leave right now. Run to the field and spend the night out there as I watch the stars glisten in the night sky, writing down the new constellations I find. But the state of my arm prevents me from taking off, that and I'm scared to step foot out of my closet for fear I'm going to get hurt again. I feel safe inside the small confines of the closet and it makes me think of another story I could write. Something about a girl who hides inside a closet as a murderer breaks into her house and attacks her parents so she's forbidden to say a word for fear he'll find her.

I know that sounds dark, but I write about whatever I'm feeling at the moment and the emotion isn't going to leave me until I write it down on paper. This one definitely won't be about any of my friends. I don't have the heart to do it, not that I want to see any of them in a situation like that. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone, not even Minnie.

I look up at the pictures on my wall and I see the newest one. It's a picture of me and Clem while we were at Texas Two a couple of weeks ago, the giant red maple tree in the background as we sit on the grass, my notebook sits in my lap. I shyly smile up at the camera as Clem holds her phone up to take a picture of the two of us.

I asked her to send it to me. I wanted to print it out and tape it up on my wall where it could join all of my other happy memories, like when we all played hide and seek at Louis's mansion, or the time me, Sophie, Louis, and Mitch all went ice skating. It's the first thing to make the wall in over a year. I didn't tell Clem her picture was being showcased on my bedroom wall, but I want to show it to her one day. I consider it an honor if someone's picture winds up on my wall, only people I really care about end up there, and Clem definitely fits that category.

She gave me her phone number and told me to call her...uh...well, text her if I ever needed her. She said if I was ever in trouble, like if the thing with Minnie ever happened again, that I could text her and she'd be right over without question. I really want to call her right now, just to hear her voice. I feel so alone right now and I wish I could fall right into her arms, but I can't. I can't ever tell her about this. If Clem gets involved it'll only make things worse.

If she tries to save me, I'll just bring her down with me. I won't let my dad hurt her like he did me. Clem is the one thing that I've gotten right in my life and I won't put her in danger. I'll have words in my head and knives in my heart, but I won't let him hurt her. Even if I plead when I fall down, even if I crash and I break down, I'm not gonna let anyone hurt her, not for me.

I start to feel sick inside because I want someone here with me right now and I know that no matter how much I need it I can't bring anyone else into this. The only thing I have to keep me company are the tears that stream down my face. It hurts, I can't explain how much it hurts. And there's nothing I can do to make it go away.

So I sit there. I sit there and wait. The house goes silent and I'm pretty sure my dad has gone to bed, but I won't get up, not yet. I hear the front door open at a quarter after eleven and I know my mom is finally home. I'm dead silent as I hear her walk past my door. I pray to God that she doesn't notice the light on in my bedroom and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding as I hear her shut their bedroom door. I still don't stir. I hate that my arm feels sticky from the blood and I want to wash it off, but I wait till my alarm clock reads eleven forty-five before I even think about moving.

It's silent enough that you could hear a pin drop which means no one is awake except me, but that means I also have to be extra careful not to make any noise. I'm already good at this, but right now it feels like it's really hard to do. I stand up and have to grip the door of the closet for support because I feel dizzy for a few seconds. There's also a sense of soreness in my side, but I put that feeling in the back of my mind. I have more pressing needs at the moment. Once my vision clears I walk across the room to my door and I hate that I have to touch the doorknob because my hands are still dyed red from earlier and I'd prefer not to contaminate every surface I come in contact with.

My door opens with the slightest creek and I flinch at the noise but nothing happens. I slip down the hall to the bathroom making sure the floor doesn't creak. Once there I flip the light on and shut the door behind me locking it. In the clear light, I can see the gash better and I make sure there aren't any glass particles still lodge in my skin. I'm relieved to find that I don't have to use tweezers to remove anything and I turn on the faucet. I run my hands under the warm water and watch the sink get invaded with red as the dried blood washes off.

I feel slightly squeamish when I run my arm under it and see much more of the crimson color. I hate blood, but there's not much I can do about that in this situation. I get over it though as my arm turns back to its normal pale color. Turning off the tap I release a big sigh because I know what's coming as I pull a white bottle down from the medicine cabinet. It's rubbing alcohol and I know this is going to hurt like hell, but I can't risk it getting infected. I've already waited a long time to clean it.

I open the top and hold my arm over the sink. I look at my reflection in the mirror and count to three before I let the clear liquid pour onto my forearm. I wince as the chemical enters my cut. It burns like someone's just dumped acid on my skin and I have to grit my teeth, but I don't make a sound as it cleans the open wound. Now that that's over I recap the rubbing alcohol and open up the first aid kit we have. I have to bandage the wound and normal bandaids aren't going to cut it.

I glance at myself in the mirror while I wrap the bandage around my arm several times. I feel surprisingly calm while I do this almost like it's therapeutic for me. I cut a piece of medical tape once I'm done so it holds the wrapping in place. I look at my work and kind of like how it makes me look edgy. I'm actually wondering if I'll possibly have another scar once this is fully healed. Honestly, I'd have Ruby look at it since she's good in the medical field having studied under our school nurse Ms. Martin, but I can't risk it. I don't think I could make up a full proof excuse as to why I have such deep gashes running across my arm. I'm not letting any of my friends take the fall for me if I go under again, so until this heals I have to keep my injuries hidden. It sounds simple, but it's easier said than done.

After I put everything away I slink back to my bedroom and lock the door again. I slip into a black t-shirt and a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. I grab my black and white notebook, some glitter pens, a black sharpie, and a few pieces of loose-leaf paper. I sit with my legs crossed on my bed and I write under the light of my bedside lamp. I don't sleep at all and I'm not going to. I write until I hear my phone alarm go off at five-thirty the next morning.

I throw everything into my backpack, change into a green long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and I leave for school before my parents are even up.