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Bitch. The names he had called her repeated in her head.
Sometime after the screams that had torn at her throat, and the searing pain that had ripped her in half, he was gone. He left her a crumpled mess on her bed, shivering, holding her knees to her chest. She could no longer cry. She had cried for so hard, for so long, that there was nothing left inside of her. She could still sob, but all of her tears had been wasted on that monster.
She hadn't moved from her bed; her body was too weak to do anything, much less stand up, but she hadn't let herself sleep, because she hadn't even been able to muster enough energy to lock the door behind him after he had left. She'd spent the last few hours whispering soft prayers that he wouldn't decide to come back slipped through her lips. Hours, that was a funny concept to her now. It seemed like it had been days, eternities even, since he had left her body broken and bruised. It could only have been hours though, no matter how long the night had felt.
When the sun appeared on the horizon, she heard her mother come home. She wanted to call out to her, but her voice was so hoarse, so broken. She thought about dragging herself through the hallways and to the feet of the woman who had raised her, but knew better. Even if Velma did believe her, which she wouldn't, she couldn't leave this room. She could not put herself out there for him to see the bloody, ugly, disgusting girl he had left in here to die; that's what she was doing, and no one even knew it. Her own mother didn't realize that just beyond this thin door, her daughter was dying. Dying of the hurt that he had inflicted on her; the pain that had torn her body in half. Dying of the insufferable loneliness that no one even pretended to care about. Dying because she had never really had a chance to live, and her life had just been taken from her, in every sense of the word.
Amber felt her eyes gloss over as she stared at the blank wall, a soft whimper escaping from somewhere deep inside of her. She knew she needed to get up, go to the mirror, estimate the damage he had done to her, but she was too afraid. She was too afraid that the blood had damaged her pretty dress, too afraid that he'd left scars on her face, or her wrists; too afraid that she wouldn't be able to hide this from people that she saw every day. She heard her mother's bedroom door close, and her frail body trembled in response to the sudden noise. She hugged her arms around her, letting out a low whine as she inadvertently shifted and the pain radiated between her legs, her bare thighs sticky with what she could only presume, or hope, was blood. It felt like a million paper cuts between her thighs, and she let out a low groan that left her throat hurting. It was almost instinct for her to reach down, to touch the part of her that stung so badly, but as her fingers began to skim past her belly button, she stopped. She couldn't bear to touch it; couldn't bear to look. She didn't want to see how he had destroyed her.
Whore.
She lay still in bed for what felt like days, but was, in actuality, mere hours. She tried to focus on something, anything other than the stinging pain inside of her and the throbbing in her cheek. She wanted to forget everything; forget the last twenty-four hours and convince herself that it had never happened. She thought, for a moment, that she heard Velma coming towards her room, maybe telling her that it was time to leave for school. She did that sometimes, though only when she didn't feel like having Amber linger around the house any longer. She held her breath, hoping, praying that it was her; that she would find her daughter in this broken heap, and rush to her side. When Amber realized it was Sunday morning, she felt her heart sink further into her chest. Her stomach was sick, and she suddenly felt like throwing up, but forced the feeling down. She refused to leave this room, even for the restroom. She would not let herself become a victim again.
As she lay there, her dress ripped and bloody, she tried to think about how much worse it could have been. He could have killed her, could have seriously injured her. She could be dead right now.
But who was to say that she wasn't?
Slut.
It took everything she had left to pull herself into a sitting position, and she let the room spin around her as she tried to adjust to the feeling of unfamiliarity. This had always been her room, she'd always looked at these same four walls, had always slept in this bed, but everything felt so different. She didn't recognize any of it, even in the gentle light of morning. By the time she had placed her feet on the floor, she began to walk, then stumbled and crawled to the bedroom door, locking it with a loud shriek, pounding her fists against it, hating herself for forgetting to do that the previous night. Hating herself for being such a damn fool.
She rested against the door, and the instant her cheek pressed against the wood, she withdrew quickly, her fingers flying up to the inflamed skin on her face. Tracing her fingers over it, she knew she had to look. There was no way around it. She had to know how she looked; had to know how much make-up it would take to hide these wounds, the superficial ones. She could worry about the rest later.
Her hands dug into the carpet on the floor, dragging herself, her legs too weak to work on their own. She pulled herself, grunting against the pain at the apex of her thighs, and when she reached her vanity table, she grabbed onto the small chair and pulled herself up. It was still mostly dark in the room, and she could only make out the form of her reflection, no particular facial features, or the scars that marred them. Her hands fumbled to find the small lamp on the table. It sat just where it always had, but it all felt so unfamiliar that she couldn't remember. She closed her crystal eyes before switching the lamp on, too afraid, for a moment, to open them. Too afraid to see what he had done to her.
She let her eyes open quickly, and studied her reflection. Not bad, for someone who had just been brutally attacked. No black eyes, no bloody scratches. Her cheek was still pink, and there was the slight outline of a handprint, but nothing that couldn't be covered with make-up. Nothing that no one would ever have to know about.
She had, for a moment, forgotten about the pain in the lower half of her body, and when she remembered, she looked down quickly. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but it was worse. Her dress was torn, though she didn't remember when that had happened. Maybe the shredding of the fabric had coincided with her screams, and that was why she hadn't heard it. Her cries had drowned everything else out.
She pulled her skirt up slightly, and when she saw the blood on her thighs, she wanted to cry. Her eyes began to burn with the familiar sting of tears, but none came. Her mind told her that she needed to cry over this, but her body refused; it had been drained of its moisture the previous night.
The crimson liquid stained the skin on her legs, and the bottom of the dress. It made her want to scream again, but she couldn't. Soundlessly, she pulled a plain robe out of her closet, and let the dress slip off of her shoulders, and onto the ground. Her panties were ripped, destroyed, stained. She dropped them into the wastebasket next to her vanity and slipped into the robe, tying the sash and trying to ignore the bitter smell of blood in the room. She pulled a tissue from the box on the dresser and began to scrub at her legs with it, desperate to get rid of the stains, get rid of the evidence. Desperate to make herself believe that this had never happened. But she couldn't do that. She couldn't forget the way he had touched her, the way he had spoken to her. The way he had forced his way inside of her, despite the fact that she'd pleaded, begged him not to. The way she had felt the first trickle of blood run down her leg, and the way a dark lock of his hair had fallen onto his forehead during his ministrations. The way he had reminded her so much of Link at that moment. The way she'd been most afraid of him ripping her dress at first, because that was all that really seemed important. The way that he'd taken everything from her, and hadn't cared that she'd taken such precaution to protect it, and herself.
She couldn't stand the force against her sensitive skin, and instead began to wipe herself gently with the tissue, clenching her jaw when she realized she would need a shower before the stains would disappear. She couldn't do that now; it wasn't safe. The enemy was still out there, still waiting for her.
She dropped the tissues into the trash, and lowered herself onto the seat carefully, her bottom stinging as she sat. She looked into her reflection, and into the blue eyes that had always looked back at her. She knew they were different. It wasn't the same girl, watching her. She could try to convince herself differently; try to rebuild the confidence she had always had, if not for that tiny voice in the back of her head.
Fight your way out of this one, you little whore.
She felt ill again, and retched over the garbage can, but nothing came up. Her entire body had been emptied.
Now, when all the other girls called her hollow, shallow, empty, they would be right. Even she wouldn't be able to deny the fact that she had lost so much more than her innocence the night before; she had lost her spirit.
But no one would ever know that. As she glared at the bloody tissues beneath her, she made herself that solemn vow.