My eyes opened, the sunlight streaming through my window and blinding me. I flinch and roll onto my side, looking at my clock. 8 A.M. No one else was awake yet. I sighed, rolling onto my back once again. He had been right here. I shook my head, laying there, lost in my thoughts.
Suddenly, a rainbow of colors covered me-- hand prints. 6 sets of hands touched me, leaving their colorful marks on my body. Eventually, they blended together, creating a hideous brown.
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no!" I bite my lip and close my eyes, blocking out the thoughts.
Red was my first groomer, around 10 years older than me. I was 8 years old when we met, when he first used me and made me dependant on him. This lasted for 5 years, and his red hand prints sink deep into my skin, covering my thighs, my stomach, my chest, everywhere.
Orange was my first boyfriend. A year older than me, I thought he was amazing. We enjoyed our time together. We dated for about a year.. But the dating wasn't the issue. It was afterwards. No, he never touched me after we dated, but he said hurtful things. Hurtful things that attached themselves to all the places he touched and loved while we were dating. His hand prints are light, covered in sharpie scribbles.85Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiYVyfiP6rU
Yellow was my second groomer, about 6 years older than me. I suppose he was less of a groomer-- we were more friends with benefits than anything. I knew he was using me, I simply liked the attention. His hand prints are the faintest of all, having no other connections.
Green was Exavior. He was a freshman and I was a sophomore. I knew he was bad news. I knew something was wrong, that it would end terribly.. But that didn't stop me. I knew it would hurt, and I stayed with him. He loved my body-- I think that's all he wanted, now that I look at it. We would sneak off at lunch, to touch each other, to taste each other. We would get so drunk neither of us would remember what happened, but I could feel him. I could feel him caressing my breasts, rubbing my thighs, resting his hands underneath my shirt and bra. His hand prints stung-- they buried deep inside my skin, burning and stinging. I hate him.
Blue was Spencer. I don't like to talk about him, but his blue hand prints spread everywhere on my body, everywhere. His hands covered my body, connected to the ties of how we met and why we still talk. It was consensual, for the most part. Until I tried to call it off. He didn't like that.
Purple is the worst of all. The purple hand prints belong to my mother. They burn into my chest and my ass. They burn as her laughter echoes in my ears. They burn as her yelling and degrading consume my thoughts, leaving me dissociative mess. She's my mother. She's supposed to protect me, and instead. her words and her actions burn into me, carved into my brain, echoing in my head as I fight to forget.
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