Do read part I first because otherwise this won't make much sense.
Part 3 is on its way; currently under construction
Feel free to tear this to shreds, I don't mind, I just want to improve my writing in whatever way possible, so by all means don't hesitate to be harsh. I can take it
EDIT: I doubt there will be a part three, haha ^^
XxxDo
Haunted.
The night has begun to cover the land like a thick, smothering duvet. At this moment the sky is a deep blue, nearly but not quite devoid of daylight, but I know all to well that soon it’ll be a deep, ominous black. I stare out the window, watching the atmosphere grow dimmer and dimmer. My heart pounds just a tad bit faster than it should, and my mouth begins to run dry. Despite the fact that the acceleration of my pulse is subtle, it grabs hold of my concentration, and I find myself focusing on the thumping in my chest.
I fleetingly let my eyes drift shut, wishing that the sun wouldn’t go down any further; that I could reverse time and watch the sky grow lighter, and that I could create dawn prior to the completion of the sunset. The darkness that is slowly creeping into my world is oppressive, and holds power over me. At this thought I frown, a sting of annoyance flying through me. If I were stronger, the nighttime wouldn’t hold such a sway over my emotions. If I were stronger, it wouldn’t be so suffocating, so terrifying. So confronting.
There are days, even weeks, during which I’m relatively, or even quite, all right. Then episodes of terror come across me, and I get so lost in my emotions and thoughts that it feels like I’ve got no control over my life at all. Sometimes these episodes pass within the time span of a week, others are more persistent and leave me tossing and turning in my sleep for a month or more. Twilight is enough to make fear spread through my system, nowadays. I fold my arms, hugging myself as I watch the final remnants of light fade out of the world. My breathing speeds up as my sub-conscience paves the road between the shadows and my memory, and allows the things I’ve tried so hard to stow away into the corners of my mind to roam freely. My heart hammers vigorously, now, and begins to interfere with the pattern of my breathing. I breathe in short puffs, and then close my eyes, focusing hard to get my inhalation back to normal as the chances of me having a panic attack increase. My chest feels constricted, as though a weight is pushing down on my lungs, and I force myself to focus harder. Breathe in…. pause… breathe out… pause… breathe in…
When the sun’s rays no longer shine through my window at all, and the warm, artificial glow of my ceiling lamp fills my room instead, I know that the time to go to sleep is nearing. To me, going to sleep isn’t about well-deserved rest, or the marking of the end of a day. It’s not that simple. It’s about fear. Mind-numbing terror. Reliving the past. Fighting for control. These are only some of the phrases that define the hurricane of emotion that whirls through me at night. I know what to expect; the hours of lying awake, the eventual slumber, and then the waking up in cold sweat from dreams that are so real, so vivid, that I can detect his scent in the still midnight air that surrounds me.
Meanwhile my heart continues to thud violently, the rate increasing until it nearly hurts, until the pressure builds up, until even my breathing techniques are lost under the force of the hammering. Straightening up I place my elbows on my desk and twine my fingers together, clenching them against one another until it aches acutely. Resting my forehead on my knuckles I feel the blood drain from my face. I know that right now I’m pale as a sheet, and I avoid the mirror that hangs to my left, not wanting to see the effects of my overwhelming fear. I’ve seen it before, and that image hasn’t left me since. Simple physical pain is less vicious - easier to ignore - than the violation that my memory forces me to remember time after time. Go away. I don’t want to think about you. You fucking bastard, leave me alone. You’ve done enough fucking damage; give me one night to sleep soundly.
One – goddamn – night.
I shake my head; as much to say No to the images my mind begins to bring forth, as to tell him that he doesn’t have me under control anymore. He’s not here. He can’t hurt you. He’s not here. You’re safe. I repeat this in my head over and over, but to no avail. I close my eyes more tightly, trying to stop the flashback from strengthening, from asserting itself on the front row seats of my thoughts. I’m in the present, not the past, I tell myself. I’m in the here and now, not the then and there, so stop it. Stop it, goddamn it. Stop.
I try. I try so hard to follow the advice I was given; to defy him whenever it feels like he’s there, to fight him and to tell him that I’m independent. That I’m not his. I can feel myself loosing control over my body as the physical side effects of fear flood through my system like adrenaline. I shake; once, twice, until all my muscles seem to be trembling in unison. I don’t want to see the images, the flashbacks. I hate him, and I hate that I’m not strong enough, even now, to escape the overpowering panic. Eleven fucking years, you bastard, it’s been eleven years. Fuck you. Fuck your sick thoughts. Fuck the way you took my innocence, my right to say No. I hate you.
I’m in for a full-on anxiety attack, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The palms of my hands go slick as I clench my fists, digging my nails into my skin to have something, anything, to grasp onto. Even if that something is pain. As the memory forces itself to the front of my mind, blocking out everything else, it haunts me relentlessly and my senses heighten. I’m not okay and nothing is the way it should be. I stand up, feeling trapped, powerless. Suffocating. I lean my head against the wall, my fists pressing into the wood with all my force. I wish I could scream until my throat goes raw, I wish I could punch the wall until my hands go numb. But I can’t, my sister is right there in the room beside me, separated only by a thin wall, and she doesn’t understand.
I hear every tiny sound that the other occupants of my house make, every footstep, ever dropped pen, every sigh. My sensory abilities spike as the anxiety attack begins to swallow me whole, and I scrunch my eyes closed until my head begins to throb. My heartbeat grows increasingly arrhythmic and my chest feels tight, as though my quivering breath is constricted; as though his weight is on top of me again. No. No. No. No. Go away. Leave me alone. Go away, please, God, make it go away.
My violently shuddering legs can no longer bear my weight, and I crumble, sitting down on the edge of my bed. I rest my head on the wet palms of my hands as my thoughts race, his voice ringing in my ears. Shut up, don’t scream. This is normal, so don’t tell on me. They’ll think you’re dumb if you tell. You’re mine, and don’t you for a second think otherwise. Don’t scream. Shut up. Close your mouth and keep quiet. Shhhhhhh.
An image of his face flickers through my mind, and I flinch instinctively. The back of my neck prickles. A sharp wrench of fear flashes through my abdomen. I draw up my shoulders, bow my head. I clench my teeth together. Nausea sweeps over me as I remember what he did, as I feel his hands all over me. I shudder involuntarily.
The memory continues to throw his words at me, fragments of speech smashing into me like a solid wall of terror. A sob escapes me, and I cringe. In my head he speaks again. Don’t cry, shut up. You’re such a good girl. Shhhhh. I feel powerless, terrified, confused, just like I did that night nigth. A heavy sensation of dread weighs down at my stomach, and I breathe in deep, quivering. The shaking is beyond my control, and I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. I’m going fucking crazy. I’m losing my mind.
Is this what you wanted, you sick fuck? Did you, even for a second, think about what you were doing to me? Tell me, was I just some child you could toy with, fuck, and forget?
