The girl is sleeping, curled up in a ball like the cat-beasts she reads about; she's hidden underneath her bed where her soeur, her sister won't find her when she comes home from the yellow-van place called school.
A voice penetrates through her dream, waking her instantly; she forgets where she is and sits up, swallows back tears at the solid crack of her head against the iron bed frame.
"Winters!" The voice calls again, Soeur's name for her; the door to her room slams shut, and the child tries to hear her boots clumping through the thick fairy-princess carpet she's so proud of. She's going to get mud all over the pink and purple pattern the girl picked out all by herself, but she's so afraid of crying at the lump rising on her head that she doesn't even think about it.
Soeur's face appears, upside down, and then a long-fingernailed hand reaches out and jerks her out from the sanctuary of the bed. The seven-year-old rubs at the huge red mark where the girl's hand had been squeezing, the black and blue spots where it had been gripped last week when she'd pulled her from the closet. "I'm sorry, Soeur! I'm sorry!" She pleads, although she doesn't even know what she's done. "What happ-"
She's cut off by a kick that knocks her down on the ground, her breath gone for a few seconds before she gasps wildly and pulls herself up, grateful that she wasn't standing up. Her Soeur's voice, soft and upset, in need of comfort - "I don't get a birthday party, Winters. My sixteenth birthday, and I can't invite anyone over." One hand reaches over to stroke the shadow girl's stringy black hair, rhythmically - the girl jerks back at the touch, which angers her Soeur and earns her another well aimed kick. "Because of you, Winters." Her voice is so soft, so kind, so unlike her actions. "Maman doesn't want people seeing you." The younger girl apologizes again, and Soeur's face contorts into one of rage, one boot stomping on her bare toes and grinding them into the ground. The girl is silent, tears building in her eyes. "You don't blame her, do you Winters?" The young girl's head shakes slowly, and she whimpers quietly as the boot grind deeper into her toes. She thinks they're broken - again. "No." She announces, and the pressure is released - Soeur's face softens again. "Do you know what I think, Winters?" She doesn't wait for a reply, continuing - "I think that she's right. If I wasn't used to your ugly face... I think I'd get sick if I saw you." A pause. "Wouldn't you, Winters?"
She nods, pauses, and "Yes." she mutters, eyes drifting down to her broken toes. The older girl laughs, and "I thought so." she announces triumphantly, as if she's never asked the question before. "Honestly, if I were Maman..." She drifts off, sticks her slender fingers in her pockets, and idly kicks the tiny child in the ribs just because she's near enough. She turns, pauses at the door for a second and "She should have tried harder to kill you." She mutters, the door slamming behind her.
The girl allows herself a small whimper, and crawls back under the bed. She'll be back in a few hours, all tears, telling the girl that she'll never hurt her again and holding her in her arms when she gets too weak to fight back. The girl knows this, hates this. But for now... She's going to sleep.
Edward takes a shuddering breath, jerking to a sitting position before her eyes are even fully open. She hits her head on something, and for a moment she believes she's back under her bed, but then she feels around and realizes it's just a vacuum handle.
She's hiding in a janitor's closet, has been since sometime last night when she woke to turmoil and had taken off for the nearest hiding space. Her left ankle is swollen - normally she'd assume it was sprained, but she can't feel the throbbing pain that she'd gotten all the times her ankle had been sprained before.
She frowns, tries to remember what she was dreaming, holds back an aching sob at the subconscious memory and quickly shuts it out of her brain. She can only remember flashes, and when that happens she knows she doesn't want to try and remember more. It usually means she's having flashbacks, and she hates those more then anything she can think of.
It rushes back anyway, no matter how hard she thinks of something else, and she holds her knees and sobs silently. Whatever it is that was happening last night is still happening today - she can hear screams echoing from the hallway, and every so often the urgent whispers of students scheming to get out of what is now a prison, but her entire world has been diminished to her numb, swollen ankle, the lump rapidly growing underneath her tangled auburn hair, and the five-year-old memory of her sister.
A voice penetrates through her dream, waking her instantly; she forgets where she is and sits up, swallows back tears at the solid crack of her head against the iron bed frame.
"Winters!" The voice calls again, Soeur's name for her; the door to her room slams shut, and the child tries to hear her boots clumping through the thick fairy-princess carpet she's so proud of. She's going to get mud all over the pink and purple pattern the girl picked out all by herself, but she's so afraid of crying at the lump rising on her head that she doesn't even think about it.
Soeur's face appears, upside down, and then a long-fingernailed hand reaches out and jerks her out from the sanctuary of the bed. The seven-year-old rubs at the huge red mark where the girl's hand had been squeezing, the black and blue spots where it had been gripped last week when she'd pulled her from the closet. "I'm sorry, Soeur! I'm sorry!" She pleads, although she doesn't even know what she's done. "What happ-"
She's cut off by a kick that knocks her down on the ground, her breath gone for a few seconds before she gasps wildly and pulls herself up, grateful that she wasn't standing up. Her Soeur's voice, soft and upset, in need of comfort - "I don't get a birthday party, Winters. My sixteenth birthday, and I can't invite anyone over." One hand reaches over to stroke the shadow girl's stringy black hair, rhythmically - the girl jerks back at the touch, which angers her Soeur and earns her another well aimed kick. "Because of you, Winters." Her voice is so soft, so kind, so unlike her actions. "Maman doesn't want people seeing you." The younger girl apologizes again, and Soeur's face contorts into one of rage, one boot stomping on her bare toes and grinding them into the ground. The girl is silent, tears building in her eyes. "You don't blame her, do you Winters?" The young girl's head shakes slowly, and she whimpers quietly as the boot grind deeper into her toes. She thinks they're broken - again. "No." She announces, and the pressure is released - Soeur's face softens again. "Do you know what I think, Winters?" She doesn't wait for a reply, continuing - "I think that she's right. If I wasn't used to your ugly face... I think I'd get sick if I saw you." A pause. "Wouldn't you, Winters?"
She nods, pauses, and "Yes." she mutters, eyes drifting down to her broken toes. The older girl laughs, and "I thought so." she announces triumphantly, as if she's never asked the question before. "Honestly, if I were Maman..." She drifts off, sticks her slender fingers in her pockets, and idly kicks the tiny child in the ribs just because she's near enough. She turns, pauses at the door for a second and "She should have tried harder to kill you." She mutters, the door slamming behind her.
The girl allows herself a small whimper, and crawls back under the bed. She'll be back in a few hours, all tears, telling the girl that she'll never hurt her again and holding her in her arms when she gets too weak to fight back. The girl knows this, hates this. But for now... She's going to sleep.
Edward takes a shuddering breath, jerking to a sitting position before her eyes are even fully open. She hits her head on something, and for a moment she believes she's back under her bed, but then she feels around and realizes it's just a vacuum handle.
She's hiding in a janitor's closet, has been since sometime last night when she woke to turmoil and had taken off for the nearest hiding space. Her left ankle is swollen - normally she'd assume it was sprained, but she can't feel the throbbing pain that she'd gotten all the times her ankle had been sprained before.
She frowns, tries to remember what she was dreaming, holds back an aching sob at the subconscious memory and quickly shuts it out of her brain. She can only remember flashes, and when that happens she knows she doesn't want to try and remember more. It usually means she's having flashbacks, and she hates those more then anything she can think of.
It rushes back anyway, no matter how hard she thinks of something else, and she holds her knees and sobs silently. Whatever it is that was happening last night is still happening today - she can hear screams echoing from the hallway, and every so often the urgent whispers of students scheming to get out of what is now a prison, but her entire world has been diminished to her numb, swollen ankle, the lump rapidly growing underneath her tangled auburn hair, and the five-year-old memory of her sister.