Raised By Scar (18+)

The house had been unusually quiet all day. Uncle Benny had travelled for a conference. Anna hadn't come around. Just Purity and Josh two people with too much space between them and even more unspoken things sitting in it.

Purity stayed in her room most of the day. Reading. Doodling. Lying on the bed in silence she wasn't sure she liked anymore.

It was almost dusk when the knock came.

Come in, she said, forgetting herself.

Josh opened the door halfway, like he wasn't sure if he should like he was checking to see who she had become today.

You doing okay?" he asked.

She nodded, pulling her throw blanket tighter around her shoulders.

You don't look okay.

She didn't respond. That part of her had stopped performing.

Josh stepped in. Closed the door. Sat at the edge of the bed.

I miss when we used to talk, he said.

She raised a brow, her body alert.

You mean before everything changed? she asked.

He sighed, leaning forward, elbows on knees. I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought… I don't know what I thought."

She swallowed. Her throat ached from the honesty that wanted to come out but refused to.

You don't have to pretend with me, he said, reaching to touch her hand.

She flinched. Just a little.

But he didn't pull away.

I know you feel something," he whispered. "You never pushed me away... not really.

That made something in her tighten.

Because I didn't know how," she said.

His thumb brushed her knuckles, slow. Careful. Testing.

Then it wasn't careful.

He stood, walked closer, and cupped her jaw gently. Tell me to stop.

She couldn't.

Because something inside her was fighting two wars: the one that wanted to run, and the one that needed to feel something that looked like attention.

When he kissed her, it wasn't soft.

It was possession disguised as care. His lips moved like he was trying to erase all the times she cried alone. Like rewriting her pain with pressure.

POV: Sometimes the wrong person touches you the right way, and that's the scariest lie of all.

His hands slid under her blanket. She gasped, this time not from fear, but because her body traitorous, burning responded faster than her mind.

See? he whispered. "You want this.

She wanted to scream no. But she didn't.

Because what if he was right?

What if the ache in her chest wasn't just pain but longing, misplaced and manipulated?

Clothes didn't come off this time.

But boundaries did.

He kissed her neck, trailing heat down her collarbone. His fingers ran along the waistband of her shorts, not going further just sitting there, reminding her of how much power he had over her body… and how little she had left for herself.

When he finally pulled away, her lips were swollen, her chest rising too fast, and her hands clenched into the blanket like it could protect her.

Josh looked at her, lips curved in something like a smirk.

Next time, you won't hold back,he said, leaving her room with the same ease he entered like he hadn't just rearranged her world again.

She stared at the door long after it closed.

Just remembering.

POV: The worst part of being touched by someone who's hurt you is when your body doesn't know it should say

The night settled like fog, thick and quiet. Not heavy. Just... waiting.

I sat at the window, legs folded under me, watching nothing in particular. The street below had emptied. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere in the house, the fridge hummed. But all I could hear was the echo of his touchhow it lingered longer than it should, how it knew the curve of my body too intimately.

And yet, I hadn't said no.

Because I didn't know I was allowed to.

POV: Sometimes, your silence isn't consent it's confusion dressed as calm.

Josh had become more careful.

He didn't say too much. But his glances lingered. His hands brushed. His presence filled a room before he entered it.

And I, who once shrunk at the sound of his footsteps, now found myself anticipating them questioning what part of me still wanted to be seen, or saved, or simply... held.

There was no fear now, but there was weight.

A weight of knowing too much, too early.

A weight of not knowing what I truly wanted anymore.

That afternoon, I returned from school later than usual. Paint smudged my shirt, my lips were dry, and I was too tired to pretend I wasn't thinking about him.

He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking from the same mug he always used.

"You look tired," he said.

I am, I replied.

He didn't move, but the room did. It shifted, subtly—like the walls were bracing for something unspoken.

Later that evening, I sat alone on the couch, a blanket thrown over my legs. The TV played something old, but I wasn't watching.

Josh walked in slowly, eyes fixed on menot with hunger, but with something harder to name. Guilt, maybe. Or the absence of it.

He sat near me, but not too close. Our arms didn't touch, but the silence did.

You don't talk much anymore," he said.

I talk when it matters. Does this matter?

I turned to look at him. His voice wasn't teasing this time. It was layeredsomething between regret and permission.

I don't know yet, I said honestly.

And that was the truth.

Because I didn't know what to name this new feeling how I could hate what happened, yet still feel drawn to him like a wound to the blade that made it.

POV: Some pain doesn't end in screams. It ends in longing that confuses you.

That night, I wrote another line in my journal

Healing isn't clean. Sometimes it smells like the person who hurt your soul.