(no subject)
By the day after Hugo's little 'art session', my back, and body, were so incredibly sore and stiff, I could hardly move. Thick scabs dried over the lines he'd cut in my skin, and the flaps of skin dried, stuck partly to the flesh which they'd been skimmed off of, but with every move, with every motion, it's seemed another one of them has cracked, peeled or bled all the more. The sight of myself in the bathroom mirror filled me with disgust and rage, and I've watched, day after day, as the wounds have gone from slim lines with crusting tops, to thick, red, raised ones that ooze thick and off-color when they crack, causing more pain, and more enjoyment for him. It doesn't take long for my appetite to go, not that I get to eat much here anymore, anyway; near a week after the incident with the knife, which he threatens to bring out again to "decorate" the rest of me with, I find myself hot with low fevers that are coming and going as a result of infections that his 'alcohol treatment' did not prevent. My entire back is painful to even the slightest touch, my energy totally gone, with me having the will to do nothing more than sleep when I'm not working about the house.
I've heard somewhere that a human can survive up to a month in extreme conditions before dying, which makes me wonder how long I'll last here, hoping for an end to this misery, but knowing in the pit of my stomach that I've probably got a long way to go before my heart stops beating. It's harder and harder to lift my head every morning that I'm still on this earth, cruel place that it is...