"Cheshire?" Astra creaked the door open slightly. "Mom said that it's time for dinner." 

I looked up from perching on my pillow, dull. Everything else in my room had been tidied up and never touched again, barricaded into neat stacks within shelves and closets. 

"Ca—Cheshire?" The door slowly swung open, letting hallway light stream in to my shadowed nest. The first thing I noticed were my hands. They'd been rubbed raw in my subconscions, boasting a strained pink. The second thing I noticed was the tentativeness of little Astra. The lack of sweet, sweet intimacy.

Call me Cat,  I screamed. Come over and hug me, like I used to whenever you're sad. And bring a Crunch bar while you're at it. Instead, I just swung off the bed and scraped my way to the dining room. Cat is dead. 

"Hello, Cheshire dear," Mom smiled at me, but not coming towards me. She knew that by now, 2 weeks after coming out of hospital, I wasn't to be touched. The only time I'd show myself is at dinner. Otherwise, I stayed in my room, hoping so fervently that I was nonexistent. That Mom wouldn't miss my baking, or my corner of the couch was reheated by something else, or Astra could find her own friends for love and guidance. 

"Darling, we have your favourite creme brûlée for dessert today," Mom continued gently. I nodded blankly, sliding into a chair as she served up dollops of curry chicken and rice. A family favourite. Astra and Dad joined me promptly, and we began to dig in. 

I picked up the spoon — and put it down.

Should they really bother feeding a worthless slut? 

My stomach hurled, suddenly not hungry. Why had I never cared to think about that? 

My throat was choking me, my nostrils closed, defending the ever-persistent wafts of food from reaching my senses. I struggled to take a clean breath.

Dad's gaze flitted towards me. He noticed. 

I couldn't move, strangled by the constraints of my mind, binding my arms to my chair and tying my life to the pillory. I stared at the brown, snarling bits of meat, sick. 

"Not hungry today, Cheshire?" asked Mom. The cutting of all utensils had seized.

"I..." I muttered, my mouth dry. "I..."

"Speak up, dear," encouraged Dad. 

It was time to speak up. It was time to tell them how I felt for all these two weeks, how Cheshire felt like she invaded Cat's life, how poor little Cheshire wants to be a normal girl again, gossiping which boys to save her v-card for, how she longs to be teased for cuddling animals, how she wanted to set her stiff composure free, release the ropes to her mind and become part of the family again. Yes, how I wanted to be a part of everything again, a puzzle piece that fit comfortably in every jigsaw offered in life. 

Every word you speak is seductive, lustful, sinful. There's no turning back from a dirty prostitute. 

As the tears welled up in my eyes again, I mourned what I had lost. A jigsaw piece without its edges or crevices could not fit in anything. It would be sent back as a malfunction, to be replaced by something better, neater, easier to care for. Not for a heavy burden like Cheshire Oaks. 

I shut my mouth, letting the tears trail a pattern down my face. They might as well have dented my cheeks, by how frequently they came. 

No more tears, please, no more pain. Take it all away from me. I wasn't ready to suffer all of this alone. 

Sorry, dear, cooed the voice in my head, dangerously gentle. You're stuck where you are. You will never escape this wreck of your life.

Oh, for the love of...

I sprang up, unable to say anything but a mumbled apology. I ran back to the sanctuary of Cat's room, took Porkchop and crashed into the bed, sobbing, sobbing so silently. The bubbles of crippling emotion rose through me, making me shudder, squeezing out more tears, yet I had to bottle them up like champagne never opened. 

My hands reached down to my thighs, giving them the slightest squeeze, trying to figure out if the bruises were healed. In light, it stained a faint yellow, but in darkness? Ouch. 

Pain. A funny thing, it is. You hate it, but you love it. It lures you into something so twisted you couldn't distinguish right or wrong. Pain, is it good or bad? I let out a little laugh as I squeezed my leg again, feeling the jolt of it throb from my thigh all the way to my heart. The place where he caressed, I abused. I knuckled the yellowing bruises all over me, again and again, wiping out the marks that proved his greasy grip with my own doing. 

Punch by punch,  I felt my body returning to me. I was in control. 

More laughter escaped my lips; I shook in ecstasy as I fingered the cheek he laid whiskey-scented kisses over, before dragging a nail down them. A tangy taste next to my lips told me I drew blood.

Good.

Wait, not good, I thought, snapping to my senses. I couldn't be doing this. 

Why not, little slut? You're bound to be abused by your customers out there, no? Why not give yourself a little sample?

Vigorously angel and demon sparred inside my mind, debating on whether to bring myself back or lead me to my destiny. As warm crimson trickled down my cheeks, wrecked logic wrapped around me in a cocoon of safety. 

I couldn't stop giggling as I shredded myself into pieces no one could bother with. Nails were good friends. Absentmindedly I promised them a good polish once I was done with myself. One would think I was being  told a funny joke as I happily brought green-purple to creamy skin. 

The joke is your life. 

Oh, it was such a funny joke! To be raped whilst abiding strictly to dress code? To be so tantalizingly close to home? Giggles turned to cackles as I followed the pattern of punch, scrape, punch, scrape. 

If I ever had guardian angels, they can go rot in hell for falling asleep at the job. And I'll go right behind them. Perhaps, even now...

"Cheshire!"