Page 103 of The Rogue and His Flower

There on the dirty mattress, my younger self presses tiny hands against her ears as she tries to drown out our father’s voice, but they're useless against the onslaught as he spits fire at her, burning her body with spite, and incinerating her innocence one hateful word at a time.

“Useless little wretch… Snivelling little shit… Worthless bag of bones…”

He knows.

He knows that the words he uses hurt her the most. That somehow her tiny little body can switch off and go someplace far, far away when his meaty hands crush her skinny little limbs and his knuckles bruise her fragile body. So he uses his words like a blade, slicing through her body, cutting her up until she’s nothing more than a pulpy, hollow mess.

Broken, trembling, she wraps herself up into the tiniest of balls hoping he’ll leave her alone, that he’ll tire of being evil, and he’ll just leave her to rot in this disgusting room. She hopes for release, and an end to this cycle of horrible, incomparable abuse, not knowing that it’s death she’s wishing for.

This time, however, he’s at his worst. A cruel creature wanting nothing more than to inflict pain with hateful words that shatter her very soul. Those times… they’re the worst.

“You’re not wanted,” he sneers, looming over her, a monster made of fire and brimstone, daggers and blades, lancing at her skin, sinking his hate into the very innermost parts of her, of me. Her fragile innocence is no match against his brutality. “No one will ever want you. No one could ever love you. Your mother should’ve had you aborted. Instead we’re stuck with you. I can’t bear to look at you. You dirty little bitch. You should be dead.”

“Please stop, please stop, please stop,” she chants, crying, her eyes sore from the acidic tears, from the lack of sleep, from the years of relentless abuse. I hear her say those words, my own voice hoarse and cracked as I say them too…

“Please stop, please stop. PLEASE STOP!”

The scream that rips out of my throat, yanks me out of my nightmare. Thrashing at the covers, I fight against the ghost of the memory, and the very real horrors that haunt me still.

“Daisy?!”

The door to my bedroom slams open as my chest heaves and I sob uncontrollably now. Tears stream down my face, giving me little relief from the harrowing, debilitating grief that pulls me to shreds and scatters me into tiny sharp-edged pieces.

Broken. I’m broken.

“Daisy? Jesus, are you okay?” Dalton asks, rushing to my side, hauling me into his arms as I beat my fists against him, caught between wakefulness and nightmares. My father’s claws are still buried inside my chest, squeezing the life from my heart, making me question what’s real and what isn’t.

“Please no, please no, please no,” I cry, sobbing uncontrollable as Dalton grasps me to his chest, holding me as I tremble. I’m nothing more than metres and metres of brightly coloured thread, unspooling and unravelling into a messy, tangled heap, colour leaching from the strands.

“Daisy, you’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. It’s just a nightmare,” he says, doing his best to soothe me.

It’s just a nightmare.

Only it isn’t. It’s a memory. It was real. I lived it, breathed it… I survived it.

I survived. I hold onto that.

“I’m here. I’m here. It’s just me. It’s just me,” Dalton repeats, his voice harrowed, hoarse, affected by my pain as I curl into his body and hold on tight. My limbs wrap around his body as I press myself against his chest, anchoring myself to him. Needing him, a man who can never soothe me, not really, not truly, not deep down. He can’t mend my shattered heart. He can’t fix what’s broken. He can’t everloveme.

“I’m going to be sick,” I cry, sobbing, shaking, feeling my stomach churn and twist violently.

Pushing out of his arms, I scramble off the bed and run towards the bathroom, hot scalding tears blinding me as I lift up the toilet seat and retch. My body tries to rid itself of thegut-churning, acidic memories, but my stomach is empty and nothing comes up as I choke and heave.

“Daisy, fuck,” Dalton stutters out, dropping to his knees behind me as he pulls back my hair with one hand and rubs my back with the other.

I retch and retch, trying to purge the memories and those hateful words, imagining them releasing from my throat and into the basin, wishing I could see the physical expulsion empty into the bowl instead of air and bitter sobs. When I’m spent, I collapse onto my arse, breathing heavily, inhaling oxygen as I try to regain control.

“I’ve got you,” Dalton repeats, wrapping his arms around me, holding me close as I curl into him. Seeking comfort. Desperate for it.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I cry, curling my fingers into his t-shirt, my tears soaking into the material, wanting things from him that he cannot give me. Yet, here I am trying to steal them anyway, sapping him of his strength so I can try to gather my own.

“Don’t be sorry, Daisy,” he croons, stroking my hair, rocking me in his arms. They feel protective, I feel safe in them, and that only makes me cry harder.

I cry and cry for what seems like hours, but lasts only minutes, until eventually the tears dry up and I’m a hollowed out mess.

“I–” I begin, but the words won’t come. There are no more tears, there’s just an empty, shattered shell, tattered and bleeding from the wounds my parents inflicted on me all those years ago.

“What can I do? What should I do?” he asks, pressing a kiss against my temple, cupping my face as he stares at me, eyes wide, afraid, concerned.

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