▸ Unspoken Scars: Chapter 10

[Reader Discretion: Semi-Immortal explores mature and challenging themes, including trauma, mental health struggles, violence, and discrimination. It contains scenes that may be distressing to some readers. Please proceed with caution and prioritize your well-being.] 

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The muffled argument, a persistent, low rumble between Clive and Diane, clawed its way into the otherwise quiet sanctuary of Ivy's room, like a storm refusing to let up. It created a striking and unsettling contrast to the dense silence that surrounded the atmosphere, thick with unspoken emotion. Violet perched nervously on the bed's edge, the plush comforter that Ivy had generously provided almost swallowing her small frame. The lavender fabric, soft and inviting, contrasted sharply with the tension coiling in her stomach. A look of worry etched across her face, she grasped the blanket tightly, her knuckles turning white as she twisted the fabric between her fingers. Each tug and pull seemed to mirror the chaotic thoughts swirling in her mind, a tumultuous storm of unspoken fears that threatened to overwhelm her.

Ivy sat like a statue in the corner, her back braced against the door, shoulders taut with unyielding tension. The soft glow of the room created elongated shadows that highlighted the sharp contours of her silhouette, giving her an almost statuesque appearance, as though she had been carved from solid stone. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, as if she was trying to reveal hidden mysteries from the old, dusty planks beneath her.

A surge of unease enveloped Violet, causing her shoulders to draw inward as her gaze darted anxiously between Ivy and the formidable, closed door. The room became a suffocating bubble of silence, the muffled, angry shouts from beyond the door serving only to amplify the palpable tension humming between them.

The silence lingered, teetering on the edge of tension, until Violet's voice emerged, gentle yet piercing with a deliberate force. "You never mentioned," she began, "that he was… like this." The emphasis she placed on "this" was sharp, infused with a blend of hurt and a touch of apprehension in her tone.

Ivy's body tensed, her shoulders becoming rigid, though her gaze remained stubbornly fixed on some unseen point on the floor. "Didn't think it mattered," she murmured, her voice barely rising above a whisper. 

Violet's eyebrows shot up, her voice laced with disbelief. "Didn't think it mattered?" she echoed, a bitter laugh threatening to escape her lips. "He's... he's awful, Ivy! Truly awful. You knew what he was like, what he was capable of, and yet you still brought me here?"

Ivy's jaw clenched, a muscle in her cheek twitching as she inhaled sharply, like steam escaping from a kettle. "What was I supposed to do, Violet? Just leave you out there, stranded on the street with nowhere to go?" Her voice held a defensive edge, a surge of protectiveness rising within her, though the usual sharpness was missing.

Violet's features softened, recognizing the genuine, albeit misguided, concern beneath Ivy's prickly exterior. "No," she conceded, her own voice softening in response. "Of course not, you couldn't do that. But... you could've given me a clearer warning, Ivy. You could have prepared me somehow. I wouldn't have reacted so strongly." She gestured vaguely towards the source of their unease, the closed-door. "You didn't say much about… about him, about any of this."

Ivy's gaze finally lifted, though her eyes remained clouded, weighed down by a mix of frustration and a flicker of something deeper, akin to a dying ember – perhaps... shame? Her voice was sharp, laced with a raw defensiveness. "What would've been the point?" she snapped. "People just don't care, Violet. They never do. Even if I spilled everything to you, you'd just write it off, think I was blowing things out of proportion or, worse, fishing for sympathy." An invisible wall seemed to solidify around her.

Violet's brow furrowed, her expression a visible map of concern. "But why would I ever think something like that, Ivy?" she countered, her voice soft but firm. "This isn't normal, okay? None of this is. It's... it's not your fault." 

Ivy let out a dry, humourless laugh that was heavy with pain and resignation. She shook her head, signalling her weary acceptance. "You just don't get it," she spoke. "Each time I've tried to open up, to actually explain what's been happening, I get shut down. 'Oh, Clive's just under a lot of pressure,' they say. Or, 'He doesn't mean those things, Ivy, you know how he gets.' Or, the classic, 'You're just a difficult kid.'" Her voice cracked, the final words barely a whisper. Clenching her fists tightly, she fought against the quaking sensation that threatened to expose her vulnerability, a clear battle to keep her poise intact. "So," she concluded, her voice laced with an icy resolve, "I just… gave up."

Violet hesitated, the raw vulnerability in Ivy's voice catching her off guard. "But... why would they ever say those things?" she asked, her voice gentler now, a mixture of confusion and empathy. "You're not difficult. You're—"

Ivy's head shot up, her tone cutting through the tentative warmth Violet offered. "Don't," she snapped, her eyes blazing with raw intensity. "Don't act like you have any idea about me. You've been here, what, five minutes? You don't know the half of it."

The words stung, but Violet didn't back down. "Then tell me," she said quietly.

Ivy stared at her, the walls she'd built around herself visibly cracking. For what felt like an eternity, she remained silent, her chest rising and falling gently as she took slow, deliberate breaths. At last, she turned her gaze elsewhere, her words escaping her lips in a soft murmur.

"My parents..." She began, her voice lacking any emotion, almost as if she were reading from a script, "They died when I was five." She paused to take a breath, letting the gravity of her words hang in the air between them. "It was a car accident. On Christmas Eve, of all nights."

Violet's eyes widened, but she stayed silent, letting Ivy speak.

"We were crossing the street together, the three of us," she explained, her gaze drifting to some unseen point in the distance. "And then… some drunk bastard ploughed right into us." Ivy's hands curled into fists on her lap. "My parents—they shielded me," her voice thick with a mix of grief and raw, unrestrained anger. "They took the brunt of it - the full, brutal impact. Meanwhile I came out with just a few minor injuries."

The atmosphere in the room shifted abruptly, a chill creeping in as Ivy's words weighed heavily against the walls. Violet instinctively opened her mouth to reply, but Ivy continued, her voice steady and resolute, leaving no room for Violet's thoughts to break free.

"After… well," She pressed on, a dry laugh slipping from her mouth. "I had two choices. Go live with my uncle or some distant relatives on my mother's side, people I'd never met before. I chose him..." Her laughter erupted once more, a piercing and acrid echo that cut through the air. "I thought he'd, you know, care. That he'd be some sort of… guardian. Turns out, all he wanted was the money..."

Violet's breath hitched. "Life insurance?"

"Yeah." Ivy's voice hardened. "My dad helped him a lot when he was alive. Paid his bills, got him a better job. Clive hated him for it—hated him for being successful. And he hated my mother even more for trying to stop it."

"Ivy…" Violet's voice trembled, but Ivy didn't look at her.

"He blames me for their deaths," Ivy said flatly. "Says it should've been me instead of them. And the funny thing is… part of me believed him for a long time."

"That's not fair," Violet said, her voice breaking. "You were a kid. You didn't—"

"Doesn't matter," Ivy interrupted, her tone cold. "Fair's got nothing to do with it. This is just how it is."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost unbearable. Violet's heart ached, not just for Ivy's pain but for the way she carried it—like a weight she'd grown used to, even if it was crushing her.

"I'm sorry," Violet said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ivy glanced at her, surprise flickering in her eyes. "What for? You didn't do anything."

"For not knowing," Violet said, meeting her gaze. "For not realizing how hard this has been for you."

Ivy looked away again, her expression guarded. "Don't pity me. I don't need it."

"It's not pity," Violet said firmly. "I just… I don't understand how anyone could see what you've been through and not care."

Ivy let out a derisive snort, yet it lacked any trace of amusement. "Because it's easier not to. People don't like messy things. They don't like broken kids. They want you to smile and say thank you and not make a fuss."

"You're not broken," Violet said softly.

Ivy didn't respond.

They sat in silence for a while, the tension easing slightly but not disappearing entirely. Violet watched Ivy carefully, trying to gauge whether she should say more.

"Ivy," she said hesitantly, "why did you bring me here?"

Ivy frowned, the question catching her off guard. "What do you mean?"

"You barely know me," Violet said. "You could've left me at that bench or—or anywhere else. Why take the risk?"

Ivy let out a soft sigh, her eyes glued to the ground beneath her. "You reminded me of me," she replied in a straightforward manner. 

Violet blinked, her breath momentarily caught in her throat. "I did?" 

"Yeah." Ivy's voice was quiet now, almost tender. "Alone. Scared. Nowhere to go. I couldn't just leave you like that. Even if it meant dealing with him." 

The sincerity in her words left Violet momentarily speechless.

"Thank you," Violet said finally, her voice thick with emotion.

Ivy waved her off, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Don't make a big deal out of it."

But Violet saw through her façade. She saw the way Ivy's shoulders relaxed slightly, the gentle softening of her gaze. For the very first time, a sense of clarity washed over her as she started to grasp the depths of the girl who had put everything on the line to keep her safe. 

They stayed like that for a while, the distant shouting gradually fading as Clive and Diane's argument died down. The silence in the house was fragile, but in Ivy's room, it felt like a truce—an unspoken understanding between two people who had both endured more than their fair share of pain.

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The two girls tossed and turned throughout the night, trading places every few hours until they finally succumbed to fatigue, collapsing onto the bed in a heap of exhaustion.