Ficly

[ storm ]

I could hear the rain hitting the pavement and the thunder crashing in the distance. The lightening illuminated the entire street every few minutes, a glorious cacophony of sound and light. It was so beautiful, even if to other people the storm was a loud messy thing, which no good could come from. To me it would be nice to become part of the rolling thunder, it was so much lovelier than the private storm that raged every night within the walls of my home.

My skin tells the story of a wild storm. Bruises rise from where my fathers hands, gnarled and rough like tree bark from years of hard work, fall heavily onto my flesh – a better punching bag than the real thing. Scars of my own making are visible beneath my long sleeve tee, lines make like a flash of lightening that still make my stomach flip-flop when reflected in a fresh razor blade. I wish I could cry, but all I can do is live through the rain. My tears stopped coming when my innocence was taken.

The pills stare back at me, as if daring me to do it.

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