Forwards beckon rebound
Prose inspired by this beautiful song made by Adrianne lenker
Amelia never knew how to be treated, her mother always tolerated what her father would do, from the screaming to the ordering. Leading her to be mistreated, always.
Over the Dead Sea
She would find herself constantly forgiving everyone, acting like everything’s fine, even when someone would hurt her so bad that it would feel as if the world was collapsing onto her leaving her breathless onto the ground, where she’s too numb to even shed a tear.
Keeping you company
Yet she always went back, back to that hurt, to that misery as that was comfort for her. It was dreadful, yes, but not unknown. No unknown feeling can linger around her where she’s comfortable in. Even when it’s a falling comfort.
The glances, that are over analyzed. The subtle movements, that stay in her mind, the words that sting her fragile heart. It never goes away because she never lets go of the pain. The minute she feels at least a little better, her heart rises, her hands tremble, her body shakes because this feeling is unknown not only for her soul but for her body too.
Thinkin', "I'm not afraid of you now"
Pain, heal repeat. Pain, heal and repeat. Pain, heal and repeat.
I'm not afraid of you now
Staring at the mirror, as tears fall into the watery sink, she wipes them off. "It’s fine Amelia , your fine, don’t be overdramatic, they obviously did it by mistake" She whispers under her whimpering breath.
Forwards beckon rebound
"Again? It’s fine she said it’s a mistake" breathe in, breathe out, breathe in-
Forwards beckon rebound
"It’s fine?" she asks wiping the mascara from under her eyes, staring at her puffy face filled with products, finding herself in the same place she’s been her entire life.
Forwards beckon rebou-
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Your words feel like bones cracking under the same hand again and again. Every line carries the weight of breath stolen, of collapse replayed until it becomes ritual. Pain, heal, repeat—not rhythm, but a liturgy carved into her skin.
The mirror scene doesn’t just wound—it brands. Mascara bleeding into the sink, Amelia bargaining with her own reflection, rewriting cruelty as “mistake.” That’s the most devastating trick abuse plays: it convinces you to hold the blade and call it love.
And the echo of it’s fine—that ghost stays longer than any scream. Misery becomes her language, her gravity, the only place her trembling hands don’t betray her. Because freedom, however gentle, is a stranger. And strangers are unsafe.
The cruelest part isn’t that she keeps going back. It’s that the pain is the only thing that ever came back for her.