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“What?”

“The girl who thinks she’s finally brave.” He takes a long breath, looking at me like he’s trying to understand when I became someone who could talk back. “You think walking around angry makes you different from me?”

I look away, shaking my head and the tears won’t stop.

“You’re so desperate to hate me,” he continues, “but look at you. You’re angry, you’re hurting yourself. You really think your brother doesn’t see that?”

My head snaps back toward him. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t care, he keeps smiling, and looking at me like I’m not worth the anger. “You stupid girl, you’re so focused on protecting him that you don’t realize what he’s learning from you.”

I look away, because for one second, I see it. That resemblance, that anger, the lack of control. And he sees it too, that’s why he’s smiling.

“You don’t want to become me. Then stop proving me right.”

His eyes stay on the knife, then they move slowly back to me.

“You wouldn’t want Milo to be the one paying for your anger, would you?”

The knife suddenly feels heavier, and my grip loosens as it falls to the floor. I stare at it as if he already won. There are some things I will never be able to risk, and Milo is the first on that list.

“Good. If you keep fighting me, or keep thinking you can do whatever you want, don’t be surprised when the consequences stop falling on you.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Do you understand me?”

I look at the knife on the floor, then at him and I reply shamefully, “Yes.”

Because I could survive him hurting me, I could survive hating him. But I could never survive him hurting Milo.

52

Mireya

Play - Take Me To Church by Hozier

Incapable of love

Blue is sleeping peacefully in front of the window and I just scrubbed my skin until it stung, until the heat of the water almost burned the memory of his touch. I’ve been doing it since the beginning of the week now.

But when I looked up, the girl staring back at me looked just as ruined as before the shower. The reflection is disgusting to look at.

What is it about hating yourself enough for anyone to feel it the moment they see you?

This new scar on my stomach isn’t painful physically. It’s strange how easy it is to think everyone sees you the way you see yourself. My fingers brush the fresh wound lightly and a tear falls down my cheek.

A single, lonely tear.

Some of the marks happened because I chose them, because my skin carries the handwriting of my worst days. The others… The others weren’t mine.

Men have been carving these letters on my body for years, men who were never supposed to be close enough to leave anything behind.

And Damien… he took care of the same body that was abused so many times I lost the count of it. People think abuse stops the moment you’re out of reach.

It is not true, it follows you in every moment of your life.

When you sleep, and when you’re awake. When you try to dress and see the scars left on you like ruins that were never meant to stay. The way you dissociate every time your mind fails to push the memories back down.