𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓪

I looked at my hand, staring at the long clean nails, remembering the warmth I felt when Owen held it.

I was confused. He took my hand, something Violet and I did often because it was all we could do. Hold each other's hand.

He was a man, but he didn't hurt me, he didn't try and touch me, he just stood there, holding my hand. For a moment, I wasn't scared. For a moment, I felt okay. But then I had looked up at him, remembering what he was, who he was, what he could do to me if I let my guard down.

I had let go and asked him to leave.

I walked over to the window and looked outside, feeling a wave of guilt and confusion wash over me. How could I trust when the memories were still too raw, too painful? I couldn't let anyone get too close.

I didn't know what it meant to trust or love someone. My mind felt like it was constantly at war. How do you make the memories stop? How do you move on and heal? How do you forget?

Does it ever stop?

No matter how hard I tried, the memories refused to fade away, mocking me and reminding me of my past. The tears flowed uncontrollably, clouding my vision and making it hard to see anything.

It felt as if I was trapped in a never-ending cycle of pain and despair, unable to break free. And the worst part was knowing that there was no one to turn to, no one who would understand.

There was Violet, but she wouldn't understand what I went through, what I did. What I had to do.

I wondered if anyone would ever truly understand. How could they fathom the depth of my pain, the scars etched deep within my soul?

The answer was clear. They couldn't.

I was truly alone.

The weight of that realization was crushing, suffocating. How could I possibly go on living like this, with no hope, no relief in sight?

I looked at my hand again, wishing for something, anything to break the monotony of my existence.

I wanted to escape this cycle of pain and suffering.

How was I supposed to?

I looked back at the kitchen, wiping the tears from my cheeks. How easy it was. Just sitting there, waiting for me. Always waiting.

The metal, the sharpness attached to a wooden handle.

It was there.

Waiting.