Purple 💜 and blue 💙

The first thing she ever learned about love was that it came with the smell of cheap

liquor.

The bottle would hit the table before the shouting began. Always the same way.

Glass clinking against wood. A throat burning with alcohol. Then her mother’s voice

— thick, slurred, and venomous.

“Useless little bitch.”

The girl learned early not to cry too loudly. Crying made it worse.

Sometimes it was words first. Words that crawled under the skin like insects.

“Filthy whore.”

“Good for nothing you are a cock sucking slut .”

“You should’ve died the day you were born.”

She didn’t even know what half of them meant when she was six.

Then came the hands.

A slap that snapped her head sideways.

A fist that landed heavy on her back.

Hair yanked so hard it felt like her scalp would peel away.

Bruises bloomed like dark flowers on her skin — purple, blue, yellow. She learned

how to hide them under long sleeves even in summer. Learned how to keep quiet

when teachers asked too many questions.

At night she would lie in bed listening to the sound of her mother vomiting in the

bathroom and think:

This is what family sounds like.

Years passed like that. Not in memories, but in fragments. Bottles. Slaps. Words that

tasted like rot.

By sixteen she stopped feeling scared of the hitting.

That frightened her more.

Because fear had always meant she was still alive.

She tried relationships later. Once. Maybe twice.

Boys who said things like “You deserve better.”

Boys who tried to hold her gently.

It made her uncomfortable.

Their kindness felt fake. Their softness bored her.

Sometimes she would look at them and think:

Why don’t you scare me?

She wanted the rush of it. The tightening in the chest. The electricity of danger.

Normal love felt quiet.

Quiet felt wrong.

So she left them before they could leave her.

It was easier that way.

Something in her head started bending after that.

Not breaking. Just… twisting.

Her thoughts became loud, chaotic things she couldn't understand. Some days she

felt like her chest was packed with screaming bees. Other days she felt nothing at all

— just a hollow echo where emotions should have been.

Doctors would have called it something.

She never asked.

Instead she found a different kind of medicine.

Weed.

The first time she smoked, she coughed until her lungs hurt. The second time she

barely noticed.

By the tenth time she realized something important.

It made everything quieter.

The memories.

The insults.

Her mother’s voice echoing in her skull.

Silence was addictive.

One night she sat alone on the edge of her mattress.

The room was dim except for a yellow lamp in the corner. Dust floated lazily through

the air.

Her fingers moved automatically.

Grind. Sprinkle. Spread

She rolled the paper slowly, carefully — like someone performing a ritual they’d practiced a thousand times.

The joint took shape between her fingers.She leaned forward and licked the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a slow swipe of her tongue.Her hands were steady.That surprised her.The lighter clicked.Once.Twice.A small flame bloomed.For a moment the room glowed orange.She brought the joint to her lips and inhaled.The smoke filled her lungs, thick and bitter.She held it there.And for a second… everything stopped.No shouting.No memories.No words like bitch or whore or should’ve died.Just silence.She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the dim room.Her chest felt hollow.Empty.Quiet.And somewhere deep inside that quiet, she realized something terrifying.She didn’t feel sad anymore.She didn’t feel angry.She didn’t feel anything at all.Another drag.Another cloud of smoke drifting into the darkness.The world faded softer.Quieter.Until all that remained was the sound of her breathing and the slow burning glow at the tip of the joint.****The quiet didn’t just live in her room.It lived inside her.Days passed in a slow blur — smoke, half-slept nights, and the dull weight of something missing. She could never name it, but she felt it like a constant itch under her skin.People around her talked about love like it was something soft.Warm.Safe.She never understood that.Safety felt foreign, like a language she had heard but never learned to speak.Quiet relationships made her restless. When someone treated her gently, when someone spoke softly or tried to comfort her, something inside her recoiled. It felt wrong, felt so fake . Because it was , it's was sympathy. like walking into a room where the air had been sucked out.Her body expected tension.Raised voices.The feeling of someone watching her too closely.Without it, everything felt emptySometimes late at night, when the room was heavy with smoke and her thoughts wandered into darker corners, she imagined a different kind of man.Not kind.Not gentle.

Someone who looked at her like she was something dangerous. Not be scared of her instead make her scared of him Someone who liked seeing the flicker of fear in her eyes — not because he hated her,

but because it meant she was alive

In that moment. Because it meant she reacted. The kind of a man who'd be the only bad monster in her world the only one . Because it meant she belonged in his world. She imagined someone possessive in a way that would suffocate most people.A man who watched her like a storm watches the sea.Obsessed.Addicted Aggressive Consuming.The kind of man who would never be quiet.Someone who would notice every twitch of her expression, every time she tried lie she tried to hide behind that numb smile.Someone who'd taunt , haunt her , trying to claim her so badly Someone who would push so much her just to see what cracked beneath the surface. Just to make her feel something if she feels so positive about not feeling anything at all and he would forcefully make her feel hate, love , lust , anger - something, everything Not cruelty for the sake of cruelty.But control.Intensity.

A darkness that mirrored her own.She didn’t know why that kind of love felt right.Maybe because chaos was the only language she understood.Maybe because silence reminded her too much of empty rooms and long nights where nothing existed except her own thoughts.Or maybe because somewhere deep inside her twisted mind, she believed that if someone could hold her that tightly — if someone could dominate the chaos inside her — then maybe she wouldn’t feel so lost. But she knows the reality , the truth “ no one scares her , she feels nothing inside.

“ Hollow Because deep down, beneath the numbness, beneath the smoke and silence…She wanted someone strong enough to break through the walls she had built.Someone who wouldn’t stop at the surface.Someone who would tear the quiet apart and drag something real out of her chest.Someone who could look at her — really look — and make her feel small for the first time in years.And maybe…Just maybe…Make her hisNormal love whispered.But what she craved was something louder.Something dangerous.Something that would drown out the silence completely.The joint burned slowly between her fingers.She watched the thin thread of smoke curl upward, disappearing into the dark ceiling.Her thoughts drifted with it.Somewhere out there, she imagined, there had to be someone just as broken. Just as twisted, and mad Someone who didn’t want soft love or quiet nights.Someone who understood storms.Someone who wouldn’t try to fix her.Someone who would simply step into the darkness beside her… and claim it. Claim her .

She took another slow drag.The world blurred at the edges again.And in the quiet haze settling over her mind, the thought lingered like a ghost she couldn’t chase away.Maybe love, for someone like her, was never meant to be gentle.Maybe it was meant to consume ......

Writers note - This is the first time im writting a story like this please forgive the grammatical mistakes