she’s not scared. she’s terrified. she feels blood pooling in her mouth, the spaces between fingers as she clutches her throat, the open wound warm and wet. it doesn’t stop bleeding and she can’t breathe without choking, she can’t see anything but black. pitch black, darker than night.
he’s coming. he’s coming and she can’t escape him, can’t move, can’t open her eyes because she’s afraid he might be watching, afraid he might be waiting for her to face him like a man instead of a coward.
her lungs are aching, ready to burst. he’s coming. white stipples behind her eyelids. he’s coming. she hears the click as he pops open the trunk, drags her out. he found you. she belts out a scream, thrashes herself awake and pulls in a breath, several more in quick succession until her head spins.
❛ skinner –––––– ❜
swathed in cold sweat, struggling to calm down. there’s no use in pretending she isn’t still fucked up and desperately trying to cope with the trauma. the impact it had and the memories it left behind. she touches the scar to remind herself she’s alive, because sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. sometimes she thinks she’d be better off dead and rotting six feet underground.
❛ you can’t tell anyone. please don’t tell anyone. ❜