A Light in the Dark

Chapter 1 - Hell

Yeah. . . this chapter was pretty short. Good parts will be coming up soon though! I'm going to start spacing out the sentences more. I think it makes things easier to read? Tell me what you think!

Hope you all like this chapter!

~Star

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A Light in the Dark - Chapter 1: Hell

I watched as the bad man came closer. His cold, blue eyes glinting in the darkness around us, his lips curling up to a large, unhidden smirk. His mouth opened.

"Oh daughter," he spat out the word. "It seems you have forgotten to sweep and wash the floors and make dinner for me last night."

My eyes look up at him in fear, braced for the wrath of his anger, and just as I predicted--he punched me in the face.

Holding my cheek, tears start dropping down my face. I'm sure that's going to have a bruise, and I can feel blood inside my cheek from the impact it had with my teeth.

I didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't my fault I wasn't able to do the work. It was his. The bad man. The man who called himself my father.

He had forgotten to unlock the door to the small basement I was in. He locks me in everyday. This is my room.

Around this room, there was hardly any light. The only light was coming from the small crack in the door when my father opened it. There was absolutely nothing here. Not even a small table, chair, or a bed. The floor was just cement, and there are insects everywhere--ants, spiders, flies. . .

A hand slapped me out of my thoughts--literally.   

"You little bitch! Are you even listening to a word I say?!" my father shouted at me.

I quickly shake my head back and forth, because lying to this man would never help. It would only make matters worse when he finds out. And trust me. He will find out.

"I said that you were supposed to clean the house yesterday and make dinner, but did you do it?! NO! So you know what that means," he says casually, letting malice seep into his voice, making me start to shake in fear.

"Wait here, darling," he tells me, his eyes showing that he cared for me, when in reality, he didn't. Only an idiot would believe that he cares.

I wait patiently, but with every moment I was forced to wait for the torture I knew was coming, I started to slowly cry, but I quickly wiped the tears away. My father would rejoice in my sadness, and I didn't want to give the bad man anymore satisfaction.

Not a moment too late, the man comes back into the room--with a huge, black duffel bag filled with what I knew were tools. Torture tools.

He pulls out a gun and shoots me in my lower leg, setting pain waves shoot up and down my whole body. I flinch. It doesn't hurt. The force of the bullet just shocked me. See, father tortures me so much, that most of the tools don't really affect me anymore. He's been torturing me ever since I was born. He told me himself--when I was born, supposedly, we were supposed to be the perfect family. But when I was born, I apparently killed my mother as she gave birth to me.

I know that's a load of B.S. My kind father probably beat her to death before she gave birth to me. Anyway, on the first night the doctors left me in the nursery, my father snuck in and got me out. He brought me to some place, and raised me there. And by raising, I mean letting me stay on the brink of death being tortured all day. Every day.

Now, I'm seventeen. How do I know that? Well, my father remembers my birthday. Why? Well, it's his special day to buy his angel a cake--which he eats all by himself. He gives none to me. Also, that's the day where he has fun showing me his new "tools".

"You bitch!" a voice brings me back to hell. I mentally slap myself as I realize something.

I had forgotten to act like I was in pain.

Why do I have to do that? Well, as I already said, I become "immune"--if you can even call it that--to most of his tools, which gets him really angry. When he finds out, he quickly goes to some place, gets a new tool, and comes right back to torture me with the new tool.

"You have gone immune to this one too?! Why, you bitch?!" he screams at me.

I don't reply--and not because I am mute, but because he never taught me to talk. Yup. I only know words he always say, and so I know words, but I don't know how to talk--well, actually I just never tried.

I guess I could talk if I wanted to--because of all the words I hear from listening and (sometimes eavesdropping) on the bad man. Some days, when he was gone 'working', and I had to clean, I would sneak up to his room and look at some of his books. Some have pretty pictures with words, but I can never make sense of it. . .

And then his screaming pulls me back to the current situation. "Nothing to say?! Well fine! I'm going out, and when I come back, you know what that means," he looks at me evilly.

And, with that said, he quickly left the room, but not before telling me to clean up the house. He also left the door locked. Again.

I mentally start cursing him. Guess I'll be tortured more tonight. . .