Raised By Scar (18+)

The house had fallen into a rhythm again.

Quiet mornings. Soft footsteps. Distant laughter from neighborhood kids seeping through the windows like forgotten memories.

But something inside me had shifted.

Josh barely spoke to me these days, but his silence was no longer distant it wrapped around me like breath on the back of my neck. He didn't touch me. Not lately. But his eyes... they did. They reached places he had no right to, and still I didn't run.

I hated myself for that.

POV: Some silence doesn't ask for permission. It just lingers until it becomes your language.

That evening, I found him in the hallway, leaning against the wall like he had been waiting.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, his arms crossed, his gaze dragging over me slow and heavy like warm syrup. I froze. My body knew this language now. My pulse skipped to catch up.

You look tired, he said, finally.

Long day, I whispered back.

He stepped forward. One step. Then another.

He didn't touch me. Not yet. But his presence did something worse. It reminded my body of things it shouldn't miss the confusion, the forbidden warmth, the way my skin remembered him even when I begged it not to.

POV: Sometimes your body grieves for the wrong things. For the wrong people. For what you hated but didn't stop.

🔞🔞

you spoke to my dad, he said casually, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. So… you see, there's nothing stopping this. Permission's already given."

I barely had time to register what he meant before his hand was on me fingers brushing my thigh, sliding up to the hem of my shorts, and then higher still until he reached my stomach. My breath hitched. The way he touched me wasn't like the playful gropes I remembered from home. It was different.... commanding.

Chills shot through me, nerves firing like they'd been asleep until now. I froze for a moment, unsure whether it was fear or desire crawling beneath my skin but I didn't move away.

His hand traveled up my torso, slow and deliberate. Before I could say a word, my top was pulled up, breasts exposed, nipples hardening against the cool airand then his mouth was on me.

He sucked like he needed it, like he was trying to claim something. When he bit down, I gaspedhalf pain, half pleasureand grabbed his shoulder instinctively. He didn't stop. He only squeezed harder, taking more into his mouth, sucking deep, his tongue rough against my skin.

I shivered as he dropped to his knees, his hands firm around my hips. He looked up at me, face level with the space between my thighs, eyes locked with mine.

For a second, he just stared.

What is he thinking? I wondered, my breath shaky.

What does he see when he looks at me like that?

But before I could finish the thought, I felt his fingers. One maybe twosliding between my folds, warm and slick with every pass. Then in. Out. In again.

My knees buckled slightly. I reached for the edge of the table beside us, gripping it for support. He didn't rush. He moved with rhythm, with purpose, curling his fingers just enough to make me gasp again.

And just when I thought he'd stop when I thought maybe this was all he came for he pushed me back onto the bed and crawled over me, slow like he had all the time in the world.

He wasn't done. Not even close.

That night stretched long, twisted in heat and silence, broken only by the sounds of breath and skin, moans and whimpers. Every time I thought I'd had enough, he started again fingers, tongue, teeth pushing me into places I didn't know I could go.

It was more than physical.

It was consuming.

And I didn't stop him.

That night in bed, I touched the places he touched not with pleasure, but with questions.

I didn't cry. I didn't smile.

I just laid there and wondered: What am I becoming?

And more painfully: Is this normal? Or is it just happening to me?

I wanted to ask Anna. I wanted to write in my journal. I wanted to scream and still remain quiet at the same time.

But instead I just slept.

Because tomorrow was school again. And school was my only place where my body felt like it belonged to me.

POV: The most dangerous silence is the one you keep around people who say they care.

At school, no one suspected a thing.

I laughed when Anna cracked her silly jokes. I helped arrange the paints in the art room. I answered questions in class. Nothing about me said something's wrong.

And maybe, for a moment, that was true.

I wasn't brokenI was just... performing.

Not to deceive anyone.

But to protect myself.

POV: Sometimes we pretend so well, we start to believe it too.

Anna said I looked lighter lately.

You're healing, girl. I can feel it, she smiled.

I didn't correct her.

Because maybe I was.

Or maybe I had just learned how to carry pain without limping.

Either way, I was functioning.

And that was enough for now

When the bell rang and school ended, I dragged my feet walking home. Not because I was tired, but because I didn't want to arrive too early.

Too early meant being alone with Josh.

Too early meant facing the quiet house that always remembered what I tried to forget.

But I went anyway.

He was in the kitchen, shirtless again, a bowl of cereal in his hand.

He looked at me. Smirked.

Welcome home, he said. I didn't answer.

Just walked to my room, closed the door, and sat on the floor.

And in that silence, my sunflower came to mind.

Bright, fragile, still growing just like me.

POV: Not every survivor looks broken. Some ju

st look like art.

That night, I pressed my painting against the wall.

Not to display it

But to remind myself I'm still blooming.