Moth to the flame (freewrite Julia #6)

Julia hears the skin on skin connect, then break, then connect again, and she's far away. Five, that was her mother's punishment, when Julia was a child, five hits. It was five slaps on that day, although Julia was no longer a child. She hadn't been for a long time, but things have a way of taking their own time and she'd felt those chills, that fear of discovery, as a woman, not as a girl, although those fears belonged to the realm of childhood rather than womanhood.
And her mother had discovered her, like she did every time. Her mother saw everything, she heard everything. And she'd hit Julia, but she'd hit in vain. She couldn't harm what was inside Julia, a fire, a danger that threatened to burst out and burn everything around her. All actions are justifiable in the eyes of someone.
Even her mother's.
And Julia thinks of this, briefly, and hears her mother slap her again and again, trying so hard to put out the fire in her eyes. She hears it now as she watches the man's hand crawl up her leg. And she cannot move. Perhaps she's caught inside the memory. Yes, she tries to tell herself that. That she is so detached that she simply cannot stop this man's hand. But she's not. She knows she's not. She's right there and part of her watches in horror and screams to deaf ears.
Someone else is in charge now. The fire's overwhelmed Julia and what she's tried so hard to quench herself has only spiraled out of control.
And Julia feels tears rush out of her eyes, because she tried, she punished herself, because she knew she deserved it.

Julia stood in her bathroom, in the middle of the night and she looked at the woman in the mirror. The girl with fire in her eyes, the fireful little monster who only deserved punishment. Pain. She sobs right before it happens, she senses it in the air, even before her palm connects. Before she feels the burn in her cheek. She hits hard, because she knows she deserves it. Again and again, like her mother used to. And she screams and she loses count. Did she slap her face five times? Or was it ten? Or was it fifteen? She can't count and her hands are flying, both of them at the same time and her cheeks are screaming. Stop, stop, stop. But she can't stop, because with every hit she lands, she feels slightly better. Only slightly.
Every hit agrees with the voice in her head. She deserves nothing, no love, no acceptance. She only deserves this. Violence.
Hits land against her head, everywhere, on her forehead, on her cheek, on her chin, one even lands square across her ear, sending drums through her brain.
And one hits against the door and that lands heaviest of them all. Steven pushes himself against the door, but it's locked and he prepares to break it, if he must. He steps back, so as to run at it, force his way, but there is no need.
She appears in the doorway, face red and tear-streaked. And she seems so utterly lost and so, so sad that he loses all his weight. All the strength that would've a moment ago pushed against the door is vanished. He has nothing now.
So, he scoops Julia in his arms and carries her inside, whispering it's alright, while all the while knowing it is not. He kisses her forehead, sitting at the edge of her bed.
'Hush, you're okay. I promise you're okay.'
And he doesn't ask why, because he knows better. He's seen violence, in his time, and he knows better. And instead of questions, he caresses her. First her face, then his hand drops and not daring to touch her breast, he runs his fingers over her knees, so soft, so breakable. And then up her naked thigh and there's no turning back.
He knows it. They both know it. Her mother tried, Julia sees, and her mother lost. She bites the man and consumes him in the fire of her love and desire until he is little more than a ghost.
'I'm sorry,' she whispers.
To the nothingness.