Katherine went to pick at the stitches slightly below her hairline, pulling her hand away at the last moment. The last thing she wanted was to end up tearing the whole lot out and having to get new ones put in. Once was bad enough.
"Another ugly scar. I guess I'll never be on the cover of Vogue now." She said to her cat, smirking a little. She didn't mind that much if it left a mark.
Katherine stared at the little amber glass bottle of white and red pills sitting on her bedside table. The apartment, the place that had always, ever since she had moved in there, been her safe place, now seemed like a hiding place. She was not sure what she was supposed to be hiding from, but she knew that it was bad. Right now, she was debating with herself over whether or not she should take the pills. The questionable doctor who had put her stitches in had prescribed them to her, with the vague advice to take two in the morning. Katherine did not like medication. She did not trust it, to be perfectly honest. She sighed deeply, before picking up the bottle, emptying two pills onto the palm of her hand, and dry-swallowing them. Then she lay back down again, to get back to sleep.
"Kattthherrrrinne!!!" There was a long drawn out call that seemed to come from the end of a long, dark corridor. Katherine stepped into the dim light, and walked down a hallway that she remembered horribly. This was not a place of happiness. This had been a prison of misery for her, for so many years.
"Katherine! Get in here! Don't make me come and find you!" The voice called again, and Katherine jumped violently, recognising it. She ran, suddenly familiar with the layout of the house. She quickly opened the door to the room that had once been hers, the one that her stepfather had removed the locks from the inside of the door in, so that she could no longer lock herself inside, and pushed the chest of drawers in front of the door. The top drawer fell out and landed on the floor with a loud bang. Items fell out; a small plastic container of black eye-shadow spilling a powdery mess onto the carpet; a perfume bottle smashing and soaking a rose-scented stain into the floor; a cassette falling out of its case, and a jewellery box spilling its contents everywhere, a glittering tangle of necklaces, rings and bracelets.
Katherine hoped that this makeshift barricade would slow down her attacker, one of the monsters of her childhood. She grabbed the largest, jagged shard of the smashed perfume bottle, as it was the only weapon she had, and hid under the bed, as she had done so many times before, waiting for the attacker to enter.