BRUISED PETALS

I smiled at my newest gift, the delicate pearl earrings Dad gave me four months ago. They weren't new anymore, but I still treated them like treasure. I held them up against the warm light, watching them shimmer for a second, before placing them carefully into the velvet lined drawer beside my bed. I closed it slowly, as if slowness would make the night stall.

The clock read 10:30 PM. I traced the numbers with my eyes.

"Today's over," I whispered to myself, though the quiet felt heavier than it should have.

Slipping out of bed, I padded over to the closet and pulled out my soft white bathrobe. The room was silent, so silent I could hear the distant hum of the air conditioning and the occasional tick of the clock that sat on wall.

I undressed without turning on the main lights. I didn't need them. I knew every inch of my room, from the scratch on the mirror frame to the barely there ink stain on the carpet. Familiarity made the dark feel safer.

Just as I slid off the last piece of clothing, I heard them, soft careful footsteps approaching. Unhurried. Deliberate. My stomach tightened, not from fear, but anticipation.

It's time, I thought.

I didn't flinch. I didn't try to cover myself, either. I threw on my robe loosely, fingers tying the knot as the door creaked open with a slowness that always set my nerves on edge.

"Vanya, dear," came the whisper. Smooth. Soft. Cold.

"Mom?" I answered in the same hushed tone, turning slightly.

She stood in the doorway. Her face was blank, not angry, not kind. Just... empty. Her eyes glinted with something unreadable. She wore her satin nightgown, the one with lace at the sleeves and faint lipstick on the collar.

"You're going to bathe?" she asked. The question didn't need an answer. She already knew.

"Yes, Momma," I said.

She walked past me like a shadow, brushing the air beside me but never touching. I stayed still as the sound of running water reached my ears from the bathroom. A faint flicking sound followed, scented candles being lit, one by one. Lavender. Rose. Vanilla. The scents layered the air with sickening sweetness.

I didn't move. I waited.

When the water stopped, I drifted in like a ghost.

She was kneeling beside the tub, stirring the water with one hand, the other clutching my pink loofah. Rose-scented oil floated in swirls on the surface, hiding whatever lay beneath.

I let my robe fall and stepped in. The water was too warm, always too warm, but I didn't flinch. I never did. I sat quietly, knees pulled up, arms resting loosely at my sides.

She scrubbed my skin like she was washing guilt off a floor. Her hands weren't rough on purpose. That was the problem, this was care in her mind. This was love. I sat there, head tilted back slightly, eyes fixed on the wall tiles.

Then she paused.

I knew the rhythm. I knew what came next.

She stood slowly, reached into her wig, and pulled out two silver clips, the ones she usually used to pin her curls back when they drooped. She held them delicately, like heirlooms. But they weren't meant for hair tonight.

My heart slowed, not in fear, but in quiet surrender.

She walked to me. Knelt again. Opened the clips. And fastened one to each nipple.

A sharp breath escaped my lips, but I said nothing. I curled my toes beneath the water, eyes still on the marble. The pain burned slow, like a brand sinking into skin.

Then came the candles.

She picked two, held them carefully. Her eyes didn't even blink. I knew what she would do. I'd known for weeks now. Maybe months.

She tilted the candles, and the wax began to drip.

First a drop.

Then another.

It landed across my chest, my collarbone, the soft slope of my stomach. It burned, but not enough to scar. Just enough to remind me.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

"This is the part where I should cry out in pain," I thought. "Where I scream for someone, anyone, like a normal person."

But I didn't. I hadn't for a long time.

You see, I'm not so normal anymore.

And my mother?

She's not insane. Not completely.

Just a few screws loose. Just enough to turn a soothing bath into a performance. A ritual.

She thinks it's teaching me something. Discipline. Control. Toughness.

But all it's teaching me is silence.

I stared ahead, listening to the last of the wax drip, each drop a quiet beat in the longest song I've ever known.

When she was done, she stood, wiped her hands on a white towel, and said, "Your hair isn't braided dea" she said caressing my cheeks "Come" she said as the walked out of my room.

I didn't answer.

The wax hardened.

The water cooled.

And I stayed there, long after she left, but It wasn't over just yet more awaited me in the room.