DINNER WAS SILENT.
The only sound that could be heard was the scraping of our knives and forks against the plates.
Father's new wife, Victoria, wasn't the evil step-mom from hell. She was a quiet lady, which was why I never understood how she met my Father. She and I usually kept our distance from one another, only speaking when it involved Father.
Her porcelain skin was ashen, almost anemic; and a cold sweat glistened on her forehead and her reddened cheeks. She had hair so black against skin so white, it made a contrast that only served to make her look all the more haunting. Her lips that were once rose pink, were now chapped and bleeding. She looked more tired and sick than I had ever seen her.
Father didn't shy away from letting people know how rich he was; the walls were covered with a shimmering gold paper and in the middle of the ceiling, above the carved oak table, was a candelabra. Down the center of the table was a runner with celtic design woven in gold and green into the fabric itself. The polished silver cutlery was heavy to the hand and shone brightly in the under the bright light. At each place stood a tall empty wine glass, and there were folded napkins to match the runner.
I stared down at my plate of food intensely, scared to even lift my head. I shoveled down the food, in hopes that eating faster, would mean that I could leave.
"Sit up and eat properly," Father snarled. His voice echoed in the large and empty-feeling room, "I know you're stupid, but surely I taught you enough to know not to eat like a pig?"
My fork froze mid-air, just as I was about to eat. I held in my instinctive flinch when his cold voice filled the room, but I couldn't stop the slight shiver that ran through me. His voice alone had the hairs on my arms rising.
My chapped lips parted to reply, but I didn't lift my head from the table, "Sorry Father."
A lump formed in my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it down and straightened up in my seat. Slowly, I placed the fork back down. My hands clasped tightly under the table as I constantly fiddled with my knuckles, weaving my fingers in and out of each other.
Father snorted, not bothering to hide his look of disgust, "Pathetic."
Unable to stop the small scoff from escaping, Father's head whipped over to me.
"What? Think that's fucking funny?"
He snatched his glass, throwing it in my direction. I ducked, raising my hands over my head protectively. Before my brain could even register the sound of breaking glass, my eyes were shut tight and a million new knives fall softly over my exposed skin. I froze in my seat, my heart hammering inside my chest. When I finally opened my eyes, all that surrounded me was crimson red liquid, oozing out of the small wounds on my arms. Yet, despite the countless slashes on my arms, I didn't feel any of it. A never ending dark void settled in my chest, that consumed everything, so I was left feeling nothing. Nothing seemed to be able to subside the hollowness in my soul that crept along quietly in the shadows.
A day never went by in this household, without the sound of a glass being smashed into a thousand glittering fragments. Victoria flinched back in her seat, but managed to keep a composed expression, despite the fear that radiated out from her.
"What?" he spat when she raised her gaze for a split second, "Are you feeling left out, hm?"
You could almost see the flames roaring in his eyes, ready to ignite anything that he came in contact with. Grabbing another glass, he aimed for the wall behind her, but threw it far enough that it wouldn't touch her.
Every word of his stung, only fueling the fire that burned inside of me. It clawed at my chest, demanding for a release. Every violated phrase was like gasoline to it, my fists began to clench and my jaw rooted. Father's eyes had a deadliness, a stillness to them that had me shivering to my core. Like a knife in my ribs, the sharp point dug deeper and twisted inside of me.
"Clean this fucking mess up," he snapped, "I don't want to see a speck of dust by the time I come back down."
His chair flew back on the floor as he came to a stand. The sound echoed in the room, before he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Victoria's gentle voice was so low, I had to strain my ears to listen, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah." I grunted, "Just perfect."
"How about we get you cleaned up before it gets infected?" She asked, but her tone showed me how afraid she really was feeling.
"It's okay, don't bother," I chuckled a hollow laugh. I glanced down at my arm; it was heavily oozing out blood and a bluish-purple bruise began to form around it.
"Trevor -"
"It'll just blend in with the others," I murmured. Countless, long jagged scars snaked my wrists, odd mixtures of bright white and light pink. Over the years, I began to view them as a collection of sorts; how many different shaped and coloured ones could I get?
She didn't reply. Perhaps she didn't know how to. Either way, it didn't bother me. I pushed my seat back, scraping the feet against the tiled floor.
"I'll clean here up," I murmured, "You can head out if you want."
"I can help?" She offered, but I knew by the way her eyes kept darting to the door that all she wanted to do was leave.
"Just leave it," I said, harsher than I would have liked.
She didn't protest twice and scurried out in a blink of an eye.
Like a weight was suddenly placed on my shoulders, I slumped over. My hand grasped at the edge of the table, the only thing keeping me upright. Darkness swirled around my hunched form, serving as bleak reminders of my solitude. The silence echoing in my ears, a constant noise that never seemed to go away. Father blamed me for Mother's death, even if I had nothing to do with it, and the chasm between us was simply too wide to be bridged. It had stretched wider with each passing day until I knew finally, there was no going back and I would be an outcast for the rest of my days.
My gaze drifted back to my marred skin; the scratches being memories etched into my skin, served as a reminder that those who felt threatened often became what they feared.
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