Misfits (#2)

16.

I peel off my t-shirt and wince as I strain my arm. The shower heats up behind me as I'm left in my white bra, facing my mirror. I dip my fingers into the hem of my skirt and pull it down also, letting it fall to my feet so I'm only clad in underwear.

I remember a quote, a book I read some while ago. A passage I'd highlighted and read over and over again.

'The deepest scars are often hidden and though a mirror might reveal our weakness, it only reflects a fraction of our strength.'

Whenever I bore a bruise and was nursing a cut, I looked at myself and repeated that passage in my head. Because my reflection, it's always been something that deters me.

I see a pretty girl. Slim because of years of ballet. Not much muscle nor strength. I see light hair that she's always wanted to chop to her shoulders. I look back at green eyes.

Green eyes that look so tired. A body that feels like it's tiring out. I see cuts on my arms and scars on my back and bruises on my jaw and I see how
nobody
knows.

I see someone that's dying, in her own body.

Mom and Grayson had argued at dinner and I can still hear them now, their voices echoing and deadening this manor. I don't know how it started but it's not an unusual occurrence. They're mirrors of each other, far too similar to not butt heads. They're both also drunk.

I hear crashing and I flinch, so desperately wanting to go and help. Do something, Violet. Save someone, Violet. Make up for what you did, Violet. But I know that I'm only going to be hurt if I'm thrown in the middle of it so I keep put, stripping and entering the shower.

Water falls and I succumb to its heat. My hair falls over my shoulders and I run gentle fingers over my arm. My cuts won't heal and one of them is starting to get infected. The bruise on my jaw is turning yellowish. I'm really tired.

Of it all.

So I shut my eyes and I go to the safest place I can find; the past.

"Wait, wait!" I hold both palms out and step in between dad and the wooden plank. I hold my arms out like a starfish, blocking him from going any further.

Dad smiles down at me, amused, "Are you trying to fly, bluebird?"

"Nope. I already nailed that." I grin, gesturing down to my broken arm. He was the only one to sign it, in big letters after I'd attempted flight off one of our olive trees.

"Clearly, my girl." He holds the hammer by his side, "What's up?"

"What's up?" I scoff, "Just in case you forgot, I put in maximum effort to this swing set too."

"Oh yeah? Does that include sitting on your butt and cleaning your pointe shoes?" He raises an eyebrow at me, pointing to where I sat on the edge of the porch where sun shines.

"I also technically cleaned the grass while I was at it. Double whammy." I wink, "We're co-workers. So I wanna hammer the last nail."

"You almost broke your finger last time, sweetie." He crouches down so he's level with me, glasses over his eyes. Like I always do, I push up the rim as they fall down his nose a little.

"You're here this time. You've got me, right, dad?" I beam, holding my hand out for the hammer. 

He smiles gently at that, pinching my nose as he always does, "Always, bluebird."

I take the hammer from him and turn around to the swing-set. Dad positions the nail and holds it steady for me, explaining how to hammer it. I'm extra cautious.