Chapter Text
Tonight finds me sitting on the bottom of the bed. It's early, too early to be thinking about getting in and wrapping the covers around myself, hiding from the world. It's only seven, I should be thinking about joining Mum downstairs at the bar and seeing what drama is unfolding. Something is bound to be going on, it always is. But I can't. I can't face anyone right now.
Liv is out for the night, sleepover at Gabby's, and Robert is stuck with Nicola going over a backlog of paperwork. He text me earlier, a sad face followed by countless kisses. Soppy git. I'm glad they are all out, I don't want anyone to see me like this.
It started earlier, some throwaway remark Adam made. He caught his arm when he was stripping one of the car shells. Nothing much, just a scratch. When he was putting a plaster over the graze he said something that had me thinking. It was a random comment, it meant nothing. To him anyway. 'Vic won't fancy me now!'
I forced a smile, it was a joke, nothing more.
That remark stuck. It was in my head when I got home, when I had a drink with Mum. When I had a shower.
Robert tell me he loves me. Every day he tell me. But how can he love this body? How can he love the way I look when sometimes I can't even look in a mirror?
The way he kisses me, the way he holds me, they all speak of his love, they make me believe that he is telling the truth, that he loves me more than anyone else. But when I see myself I know that it's impossible, that he can't love someone like me.
He is sunshine, fire and laughter. He is passion and excitement, promise and smiles. I'm being selfish in keeping him for myself. I should let him go. Let him love someone who is bright and full of fun. Let him love someone who isn't me.
I am shadows and nightmares. Tears and memories, scars. And rape. I feel like that little boy, terrified, confused, alone. Hiding under the bedcovers, bleeding onto the sheets. I am only my past.
My body is littered with hopeless scars. Big ones that run deeply into me, little ones that hardly broke the skin. White and red sit side by side on my arms, chest, stomach, thighs. I am deeply ashamed at what I have done, at what I have become. And If I cannot look, how can I expect Robert too?
The way I feel about him frightens me. How have I allowed this to happen? I know I should be on my own, it would be for the best. But the thought of giving him up? I couldn't do it. I love him with an intensity I never thought possible. I honestly thought I had been in love before. I was wrong.
Jackson was, well, Jackson. When I allow myself to think about him, I remember holding that glass to his lips... I remember the moment he left me forever. I remember the cold headstone that I cannot visit.
Ed was good to me, and he quietly allowed me my privacy. I loved him for that. He never asked about the scars, and I never told.
I bathed alone with the door tightly locked and he was kind enough to keep the light off when we were in bed together. I don't think he ever understood, and he never asked me any sort of questions. But I wish he had. I wanted him to push and ask why I did the things I did to myself. I needed to tell someone. Him. I needed to tell him. But it wasn't to be. And so I kept my secrets.
When it ended between us I felt a sense of relief. Relief that I would not have to be close to anyone again, that I could keep my dirty little secrets and cope in the only way I knew how.
And I did. I managed. All right, it wasn't the healthiest way of dealing with things, but for me it worked. Then Robert came along, and my carefully constructed little life all went to shit.
I fell for him. Hard. I tried not to, God, how I tried. But it was useless. I loved him from the start.
I think I always knew that it would be him I told. There is something about Robert that has me spilling all of my secrets. His hands, his smile, his eyes. They all offer comfort, a comfort I had not found before. And he asked. He was the one who pushed me for answers, who wouldn't take my sidestepping and bullshit. I told him everything. The cutting, the hurt. Gordon.
He was shocked, horrified, but he never once shied away. He got me through it. Without him I wouldn't have had the strength. Mum would still be none the wiser, and as for me... Well, I know I wouldn't be here any longer.
He stuck by me, even though he could have been happy elsewhere, with someone perfect. He held me when I cried. He woke me when I was trapped in nightmares. He sat with me for hours when I couldn't, wouldn't, sleep. And he still does.
Robert endures it all for me. My anger, my insecurities, my family. They don't hate him, not anymore. But he knows that they want more for me. They cannot see that Robert is the only person I will ever love. They don't see how he gets me through each and every day. They think that he will be the cause of me slipping back into my old habits. None of them realise that he is the only reason I don't.
He puts up with the remarks, the glaring looks, the obvious disdain. He does it all for me. And all I can give him is myself. It's not enough.
I sit here, knowing that I am horrible to look upon. How he can touch me and not flinch I will never know. Even in the dark it is apparent that there is something wrong with my skin. And right now, in the harsh light, it's clear.
My skin is raised where the scars are, bumpy and ugly. Long, short, healed and still starkly red, I have quite the collection. A collection I have not added to recently. But it's always there, in the back of my mind. Wondering how long I will be able to go this time. Since I have had Robert in my life the temptation has gone from needing to cut all the time, to being able to not think about it every hour. I don't want to do this anymore. For him.
I'll never be beautiful, never be someone he can look at and not think about the ugliness I hide underneath my clothes. I watch him sometimes when he is engrossed in one of his films. Seeing all these attractive men pass before his eyes. Then turning to me, seeing this sat beside him. How can he not wish for more?
If I truly loved him, wouldn't I let him go? Wouldn't I push him away and allow him find someone who is truly deserving of him? Not this...this broken, damaged, angry man with the scars. He deserves all the things I will never be able to give to him. Flawless skin, bright smiles and a ready laugh. Long nights without dreaming of old bedrooms and creaking doors. Skin that feels smooth under his gentle hands, skin that he can kiss and want to look at. Arms that he can stroke his fingers across and not be faced with a constant reminder of how it used to be.
I want the world for him, but I cannot give him anything.