Chapter One: So, It Begins

Abuse. Rape. Abandonment. These three words defined my life. I've spent the entirety of my life dreaming of a far off wonderland. A place where everything was safe. I wouldn't be touched without warranting it. I would be able to smile and not feel guilty. I would be…loved? I have no concept of what love is. I know it's something without visual proof, but tangible anyways. You feel it but you don't see it. But there have been times when I've questioned the existence of it. If there is such a thing, why am I treated this way? Why does my father get this euphoric high out of violating every part of me? Why does my mom treat me like her personal human punching bag? Why doesn't my older sister get treated this way? Why? If this so-called "love" exists…then what is it? How do I get it? Is it something you earn or…does someone just freely offer it?

He ran his hands through my unevenly chopped locks. He did that to me last week. He'd cut it then. He said he wanted to look upon my face whenever he did it. He wanted to see the pain flash before him. He loved that I was afraid, trembling, and vulnerable. It made him feel powerful in that he was able to touch me however he wanted and get away with it.

And it only robbed me of something else.

Privacy.

My father rolled off the bed and extended his arms in a stretch. His hazel eyes settled upon me once before he finally left the room. And I was once again plummeted into the dark depths of my bedroom.

A bedroom should be a place of comfort…of peace. For me it was his torture chamber. It was where no one could hear my cries for help…even if they did, no one cared to answer.

I drew my knees up to my chest and curled up beneath the dark blue comforter, broken and unable to put myself back together again.

I didn't cry though. I never did that anymore. I learned to stop crying about it when I was nine. I realized that it was simply a waste of my energy. He wouldn't take pity upon me and leave me be if I cried. So then what was the point? No, instead of crying I desperately planned my own demise. Day in and day out. The thing that just barely kept my heart beating, what kept me going long enough… was the razor hidden in my nightstand. I always had one on me. My coping method was to drag the blade across my skin until blood trickled down my forearm. I would always marvel at how much blood leaks from a single slash. I wanted to feel pain. I wanted to see blood shed before me. I wanted to punish myself. It felt good. It felt right. No one understands how much of an addiction it became for me. How familiar the sharp pain became. At times I would wonder if my scars would ever heal. On the other hand, I couldn't care less. I just knew it made me feel alive and dead all in the same instance.

I had to do it for me. Not because I sought attention - I had too much of that. It was because I needed a new way to feel. Not the way Daddy Dearest taught me how to feel. But the way I enjoy feeling.

Sad.

I longed for these desperate moments of breaking skin and the comforting sting. It was my high. My dad got his by stripping me of my innocence, my mom got the same using me as her stress reliever. For me, it was planning my suicide. Slowly and surely, I would die.. Then I'd be free. But, what would I do then?

Even though I loved to look at the scars adorning my forearm… I went to school. No one could see what I did. I wouldn't dare allude to the pain that devoured me from the inside out. If they knew, I'd be in trouble with my parents. That would mean double the suffering I endured now. I couldn't let that happen. So, I always wore my long sleeved jacket. I got away with it easily during fall and winter. But during the rest of the year, it looked suspicious. Thankfully it was September and it was deemed acceptable to wear long sleeves.

I shove my uneven raven colored hair under a white knitted beanie. Glancing in the mirror, the purple and black ring around my eye taunted me. I rummage through my makeup kit for concealer and foundation. It was routine for me and I could do it in my sleep. Conceal the bruises, then my punishment won't be nearly as bad.

Surprisingly, my parents weren't always this way. My dad formerly assumed the position of a government official. His long career of four years had been supported by his 'loving' family. It consisted of my sister, my mom, and I. But, he lost the re-election to a man whom ran extortion schemes frequently and gambled like there was no tomorrow. My dad was enraged. He had no other way to support us and couldn't get any jobs anywhere.

People did not hire the former mayor. They always told him he had too much experience to be working for them. My father couldn't get a civilian job anywhere – so, he enlisted. He was in the army until I was five and was dishonorably discharged for misdemeanor. His anger only worsened and he started to leave the house a lot. He would start drinking his weight in whiskey and beer instead of spending time with his family.

The night of my 6th birthday, my dad was worse than I had ever seen him. He had no job, he was inebriated, and he was furious. That night when my Mother was asleep he snuck into my room. I was so innocent then, I had no qualms of what he was doing at this time of night. I still remember smelling the alcohol on his breath, the murky depths of his eyes, his anger ridden voice. I thought he was there to wish me a late happy birthday when he did it. I hadn't known what he was doing, I only knew that it hurt. He promised me he wouldn't do it again. "Daddy was just sick, I won't do it again." He made a promise, and one week later he did it again. And then it was few and far between when he made his night visits. It went from once a week to three days to every night. And ever since, he has gotten his fill and I have been left empty.

My eyes flitted over to the clock and I raced out of the house in the direction of the school. So, It Begins...the first day of school at Kaibara High.