Cecelia held up on of her pale, dirt covered hands to reach the edge of the bathtub. Blood dripped off of her fingernails from having to use mostly her arms to pull herself up the porch steps, through the door, through the house, and into the bathroom. Now she had to climb even more. Her entire body was bloodied, beaten, and covered with blood. Every bone, every already aching muscle, was sent into a full on shred of agony that made her want to fall to the ground and die right then and there. She did her best to fight through it, bending her arms and straightening them, just to fall into the running shower, fully clothed, banging her arm and leg against the floor of the bath.
She cried out in pain as she made contact with the warm, soft beads of water, soothing her muscles too fast to be comfortable. The loud, sudden cry caused her to cough up a few ounces of blood, and watch it fall into the water. She watched the dirt and blood run off of her clothes, changing the color of the water beneath her, then slowly making its way down the drain, only to be followed by more dirt, and more blood. She closed her eyes, an action that made her eyes burn from lack of sleep. The burning grew as tears pushed against the rims of her eyes, trying to shove their way over the edge.
She succumbed with great uncertainty, shaking and sobbing so hard that she kept coughing up more blood with each oversized sob that shook her body. Then she heard it. The bathroom door opened. She quickly quieted herself. She could feel it. She could feel her father staring at the shower curtain with two filmy orbs that distilled the room of nothing but fear and intoxication. She could imagine what would happen next. The shower curtain would be torn off of the rack, and there would be the eyes, staring her down in a violent, inebriated anger. Then he would yell, scream, about how she had gotten mud all over the floor. How she had gotten blood all over the floor. Now she was seeing the beginning of it, fingers curling around the edge of the curtain. "Here it comes." She thought to herself. "Do yourself a favor, let yourself die this time. Just give up. Let him kill you. It will stop if he kills you."
Yet, it wasn't him. Her mother opened the curtain slowly, the short, plump woman staring down at Cecelia with tears in her light brown eyes. "I'm so sorry..." She sobbed quietly. Cecelia looked up weakly at her mother, Mandy. Mandy slowly worked on getting the girl out of her clothes and began using the wet clothes to mop up some of the blood and dirt. Cece muttered weakly, "Is it gone?" Mandy merely closed her eyes. "Your father is asleep, yes."