Birth of The Mute
Warning: Contains talk of physical abuse
“Your friends only tell you you’re beautiful because you scare them. One of them even grabs for her sword every time you talk to her.” She told another.
“Oh, how interesting. You joined the Court because you have a fear of intimacy? I suppose this is the place for shallow relationships.”
“That one won’t turn, you know. Nothing you’ve done is getting to him, and I can tell you know this. Were you lovers once? That must really bother you.”
And of course, her last truly spoken words.
“Does everyone here have Mother issues?”
She’d been getting on their nerves from the day they imprisoned her, but those were the words that crossed the line and found her where she was now: battered, overtly-cautious …and missing most of her tongue.
It took two cuts, one to open up her left cheek, and the other to get most of her tongue. The cuts had been surprisingly clean, though her face swelled for days after. The Court feigned disgust at the sight of her, though both she and they knew they’d seen far worse. A rather vocally “disgusted” courtier tossed her a plank of wood to cover up with.
“No one wants to see your gross face.”
It’s what she wore now: a barrier between the world and she, carved into a misshapen mask from jagged bones she’d found in her cell. The mask was her sole comfort at times, an unfortunate coping mechanism she’d come to rely on. When she wore it, the world couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t hurt her anymore. That was enough.
She still saw too much though, this part did not change, and when the Daggers swept through the camp, stealing her with them into the night… it was only a matter of time before she started seeing too much in them too.
And she did.
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