#ThursThreads, week 306

Prompt: https://www.siobhanmuir.com/siobhans-blog/thursthreads-tying-tales-together-week-306

She knelt down in the corner of the closet, pressing herself into the walls, making her body as small as she could. Corners always held onto smells and textures differently than walls and big open rooms where people walked and talked and yelled and hit. The carpet was still soft here, and she dug her knees into the rough pile, feeling the give of the padding underneath. She wiped the blood from her face, blood that was running down from her eyes like tears. ‘I’m blind now,’ she thought, ‘I can’t see anymore.’ And she was glad. No longer would she see hope draining from her life. No longer would she see her future vanishing a little bit more every day. Her mother would still yell and slap and berate and belittle. Her father would still growl and punch and cut and touch. But no longer would she see, no longer would she be a witness to her own destruction. ‘Can I lose the rest of my senses? Can I become deaf and stop hearing her hateful words? Can I stop smelling his cologne and the alcohol on his breath when he comes to me at night? Stop tasting the spoiled milk she makes me drink? Stop feeling his belt on my skin?’ She dreamed of a world like that, where her imagination was the whole of her story and she no longer had to be a witness to her own torment. And in that, she found hope.

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