She sits in the corner of her room, not making a sound, rocking back and forth. Her arms have scratches up and down them, wounds she inflicted upon herself. She is boney and frail, her clothes hung loosely off her thin frame. She has dark shadows under her eyes and her cheeks are gaunt and sunken. In her glazed eyes, one can see the the trapped soul of a vibrant young girl, slowly withering away.
A woman stands in the doorway, a presence that goes unnoticed or just plain ignored by her daughter. He says she's crazy... Call the psych ward he says. Take the nut away. But she's her daughter. He can't let her new husband send her away...
She calls to her daughter. Her daughter does not aknowledge her. She steps to the troubled girl's side. Voicing the girl's name once again, she places her hand on the child's shoulder. It's met by the hand of the girl and pulled closer in a tight, seemingly comforting grip. But it's soon met with the girl's teeth, that bite down had upon the hand of her mother.
The blood flows freely from the wound as her mother draws back in horror. She leaves the room, frantically grabbing for tissues to staunch the wound. She takes husband's advice and picks up the phone.
Day after day, night after night, the girls spends in the corner of her spotless white room. She fiddles witht he edge of her paper dress with nails chewed to the nub. The orderly comes through the door.
His step is different, weighing heavier on the left side. This is not her regular nurse. Her brings over the syringe filled with nutritional suppliment. Her intravaneous meal. She refuses to eat. There's a scar upon the man's hand. The impression of teeth. Her teeth. She looks up at the man. Her eyes meet her stepfather's. He smiles. Daddy's back, he says.
He drags her over to the bed. He places her down and begins to lift the edge of her paper dress, rubbing her thigh as he does so. Higher and higher his hand climbs, though she dare not move, dare not breathe. He stops and turns to pull down his zipper. Internally, she smirks. She reaches silently and slowly for the spent syringe so as not to attract his attention. She pullls the plunger, filling the syringe with what most would call nothing. But she calls it salvation. She grips it tightly, clutching it tightly into her palm. Now she waits. Like so many times before, he climbs on top of her. Without a sound, she swiftly brings the syringe up and presses it deep into his neck. Within a millisecond, she is pushing the plunger. He falls to the floor. She stands over him now, hands shaking, admiring what she has down. Never again. You're not my daddy. She reaches down and removes the syringe from his neck. Then, before one could blink an eye, she is driving the needle into her own neck.
And she pushes the plunger.
© Copyright 2016 The Perverse The Sick and The Twisted. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Horror
Short Story / Horror
Poem / Poetry
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