“Hello beautiful.” A voice said, seeming to come out of nowhere. “Are you awake?”
Opening my eyes, I tried to find the voice, but I couldn’t: it was too dark and my eyes had not adjusted themselves yet. Then after trying to lift my hand, I was shocked that I also couldn’t move it. Panick started to settle in and in my fear-fed frenzy, I tried to move other parts of my body: legs, arms, anything; but the only thing that could move—it seemed—were my eyes.
“Ahahaha...Try all you want darling, but you are no longer in control anymore.”
No longer in control? What the hell did that mean? I thought, before a light overhead turned on and to my horror, there I was: a woman of medium height, brunette hair—that was now dishelved—brown eyes, and bruises on her face. I stared at myself, wondering what the hell was going on. Who are you? I thought.
“I am you,” the woman replied, briefly smiling before her arm lifted up to where I could see it from my position. In her hand, rested a well-maintained handgun—a Smith and Wesson 9mm to be exact—“Sadly, one of us has to go though.” The other me crooned, sending chills down my spine.
What do you mean? I asked.
“Well, look at you. A sad, broken, porcelain doll. About to shatter at any given moment.”
I’m not a doll! I vehemently said.
“You’re not? Take a look at yourself.” Taking the gun, she moved the barrel closer to my face. Within the reflection from the metal, I could see that she was right: I was now a broken, porcelain doll. My body was literally falling to pieces—which explained why I couldn’t move—and I had cracks everywhere.
Who did this to me? I asked, now glaring at myself, also while trying to ignore the fact that the gun was literally centimeters from my face.
“You did it to yourself...You let them abuse and weaken you both physically and mentally. You didn’t fight back, or defend yourself. Pity, you were such a smart, nice, girl. Don’t you feel blessed?” The other me replied before using her one free hand to turn the safety on the gun off. With her finger on the trigger now and the barrel pointed at my head. I dared to ask her one more question:
Why should I feel blessed?
“Because once you are gone, I’ll be strong enough to survive. Survive the pain, the horror, the abuse. When you are gone, we can then be reborn...” Without warning, I heard the click: then I was dead...
With a start I woke up: surrounded by white walls and floors, freshly-changed beds and dazzling sunshine. After having rubbed my eyes, I then notice something else, or rather someone else: it was my mother, fast asleep in the chair nearest me, muttering “I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” Confused, I just stared at her, wondering what she meant.
It wasn’t until later, after my mother woke up, did she tell me that I had been raped, beaten and left for dead by my father...