Hello. Again. After a little while... hehhhhh. The part in stars is the Teaser from last time. Enjoy. I will be doing 2 body part themed paragraphs in each chapter.


* Her soft eyes were showed by bags, it would look as if she hadn't slept for days, weeks, even. She had dark eye make-up on, to try to hide them, to accent her iris' of a silver colour. Her eyebrows, shaped, smooth and perfect. They were a dark, black, shade. The make-up curved upwards, making the impression that her eye, too, curved up. Her looked on, almost kindly, as if it had never looked onto any sort of anger or discomfort. They showed no pain, no sadness, but no love either. They tricked people, them eyes. People thought that they held kindness, love, happiness, content, but they were all being fooled. Them eyes, they showed nothing, those eyes were no window to her soul, there were curtains in front. People saw what she wanted them to, but behind that, they were empty. They were never a window to her soul. They looked empty. They were just empty orbs. They held nothing, they had never held anything. No hate, no love, no happiness, no sadness, no lust, no anger. They just starred on, at nothing. Although the eyes showed nothing, they had witnessed hate, witnessed discomfort and discontent. They held her pain, those eyes did. They held it every night...as she cried, cried for what had happened. For what was happening. What had been happening every night from when she was 12. * Those eyes, they witnessed what was happening, they saw it, and it was scarred onto the retinas. Each time the eye was lidded the whole scene flashed in front of them, like lightning, they remembered. They brought back the pain, the sadness, the feel and the smell. They caused dark nightmares, and complete loss on sanity...

Them fingers, with the nails that clawed the back of that man. The ones that caused that man pleasure, but caused him to bleed. Them fingers, that are attached to the hands that are attached to the wrists. The wrists that are bound to bed bedposts, that are weak, that are thin. They pull at the chains, begging for freedom, begging to be unchained, begging to be left alone. Them hands, the ones that have tried so desperately to set themselves free from the cuffs, that have bloodied themselves, just to escape, they never succeed, but she hopes, one day, that they will. That maybe they will be free, so she can slap that man in the face, and escape, crawl if she has to. To run through that door, to feel fresh air and to feel the warmth of sun on her skin. To lay on they grass, on a warm sunny day with not a care in the world. To stand in the rain on a humid day and just stand there filled with pleasure at it's coolness. The nails that have been broken, so sharp to cut skin, they yearn to feel dirt, to be washed, to be cared for. To be able to grow them, as long or as short as she wants them. To click against a glass of cool water, with the pads of those fingers getting wet from the condensation on the outside of the glass. Them finger pads, the ones with old blood on, the ones that haven't even touched, sand, or dirt. The ones that have hardly even seen the light. When finally released, those wrists, the ones with deep welts in, the welts that he cuffs caused. The cuffs that held her to her bed, that filthy bed.


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