Page 126 of Eternal

AZRA

“Think Of Me Once In A While, Take Care” by Take Care

Past

C lose your eyes. Breathe. Remember.

Close your eyes. Breathe. Remember.

Close your eyes. Breathe. Remember.

The scrape of the knife against the plate brings me back to reality.

I’m in the kitchen. It’s cold and quiet except for the soft hum of the old bulb overhead, casting yellow light that feels too weak to warm anything.

The table is spotless. I cleaned it before cooking what we had left.

I barely touched my food. My stomach twists again, like it always does. Maybe it’s my body giving up.

Christian sits at the head of the table, his silver cross catching the light. His eyes never leave me. Always watching even when I try not to look back.

His wife eats quietly, as if she doesn’t hear the loud thoughts behind his gaze.

Close your eyes. Breathe. Forget.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

I swallow the lump in my throat, my gaze stuck to my plate. “I was in class... I wasn’t allowed.”

“The phone I bought you. To answer.” His eyes narrow. “Stupid fucking girl.”

“I... I didn’t mean to?—”

FORGET. FORGET. FORGET.

He slams the table. Salt spills onto the floor. His glass follows. Broken. All over the ground at my feet. “Look at me when I’m talking!”

Close your eyes. Breathe. Forget.

The voice inside me is trying to help me: He’s going to explode. Hurt you. Maybe worse.

I want to run. But I’m frozen.

“I’m tired of your lies. You’re nothing but a sinner.”

I try to speak, but his gaze holds me silent.

“You’re possessed. A whore.” His hands grab my cheeks so tight it hurts. “What were you doing at school? Letting boys touch you? That’s why you didn’t answer?”

Close your eyes. Breathe. Forget.

His wife didn’t say a word, just stood up quietly, almost gently, and picked up a few pieces of shattered glass from the floor.

She didn't flinch when her fingers brushed a sharp edge. Didn’t look at me.

Didn’t say a thing. She went to the couch, sat down, and stared ahead like she was watching something no one else could see.

“Come on,” he barked.

I didn’t move. My fingers were locked around the edge of the table. My breathing was shallow. I couldn’t feel my legs.

“I said. Come. On.”

Still frozen. Still staring at my plate like it held some answer.

Then, the sharp grip of his hand on my arm. He yanked me up so hard my chair screeched against the floor.

“Don’t you fucking ignore me.”

My foot landed on a small piece of glass. It sliced into my heel, and the pain was bright and sudden. I whimpered, but didn’t cry. I never cry. Not in front of him.

Never in front of them.

Inside me, something else stirred. A voice. One I didn’t name. One I didn’t ask for. But it came anyway, like it always did.

Pick it up. The glass. Shove it in his neck. Do it now.

No. No. Stop. Please.

He’s going to hurt you again. You know that. You could stop it this time.

He dragged me up the stairs by the wrist. I limped, blood sticking to the floor behind me, every step echoing with my heart.

You’re weak. Fifteen and still hoping someone will come save you? No one’s coming. Do it yourself.

My chest hurts. It feels hard to breathe, like something was sitting on me.

My skin was burning, itchy with sweat and shame. The hallway felt too small, like the walls were closing in. Everything looked wrong… stretched out, tilted, like a bad dream where nothing made sense but I couldn’t wake up.

I can’t even daydream anymore. Not about running away. Not about being safe. Not about the stars. I just hope this kills me. Or the pills do. Something. Anything.

I want it to stop.

Viktor would’ve helped you.

SHUT UP!

He opened my door. Shoved me inside the room. The lock clicked. That sound again. Final. He reached for the chain he kept in that corner, clipped it to my wrist like I was a dog.

“ Now scream ,” the voice whispered. “ Scream and make it the last time he touches you. ”

But I didn’t scream. I stood there, shaking, blood dripping from my foot onto the hardwood.

I wanted to be saved. I wanted a hug that didn’t hurt. I wanted to sleep for a thousand years and never wake up in this house again.

And the voice inside me simply laughed.

“You’re a demon. Impure.” He spits. “I have to cleanse you. You remember, don’t you?”

Dirty.

Sinful.

Dirty.

Sinful.

I don’t answer.

But my body does, shaking, shrinking, folding in on itself like I’m trying to disappear. My mind slips somewhere else. Somewhere old. Somewhere I thought I locked up deep inside me.

I remember the first time.

He came into my room really late at night. He smiled then, soft, like a real dad. He knelt down in my room and said, “Don’t be scared. I just want to play with you.”

I said yes.

I said yes.

Because I wanted to be good. Because he said if I was good, I’d see my mom again. I didn’t understand what “playing” meant. I was nine. And I missed my mom so bad it hurt to breathe.

I hugged him back. I remember that part.

And when it started to hurt, I didn’t pull away. I thought pain was just part of the game.

I thought maybe I was the bad one.

If it hurts, it’s because I did something wrong, I told myself. If it feels wrong, that means I deserve it. That’s what Mom taught me.

He used to whisper it, over and over, right into my hair.

“Pain is God’s punishment for sinful girls.”

“If you bleed enough, maybe He’ll forgive you.”

“If you let me, maybe you’ll see your family again.”

And I did let him. I let him because I believed him. I let him because I was stupid. Because I didn’t know better. Because I thought hugs were supposed to hurt. That love felt like bruises you had to cover up.

Because part of me still thinks maybe I ruined it all. Because I was a kid.

Maybe I let him. Maybe I asked for it.

Now I’m fifteen and I still hear that voice. His voice. Mine . Twisted together. Telling me that I was the reason he came into my room. That I smiled too much. That I wasn’t holy enough. That I was never clean.

But now I know he lied. My family is gone. Dead.

And I’m still here. Still playing his game. Still bleeding in silence.

Still under him, still letting him use me like I’m not even real. Just skin and bone, not a girl, not a mind.

His cross swings against my cheek with every thrust. Cold metal, over and over. Like God’s watching. Like He’s right here, pressed against my face, but still not stopping it.

Not saving me. Not even blinking.

And I hate that I ever prayed to Him. I hate that I ever believed He might come.