𝒫𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓎 ~𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙿𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖓𝖊(Edited)

𝙱𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝙻𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

TW: ABUSE

"ɪ ᴋɴᴇᴡ sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇs ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴀᴠᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴘᴀɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ." ― ɴᴀᴏᴍɪ ᴄʜᴀʀʟᴇs

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

TW: ABUSE

August 27th, 1993

A lot of people make a big deal about turning 13. Like how it's the start of your teenage years or you start to grow up and become more mature. But for me birthdays don't mean much, seeing as I've never really celebrated them. My adoptive parents always said it wasn't important or worth it.

They made it clear they didn't like me when I accidentally smashed all the plates at dinner with just a mere glance. Things started getting bad around here when I had to switch schools because I was 'trouble'. My parents didn't like that one bit.

I was different. A 'freak'. My father liked to call me that the most. I didn't understand why these things kept happening to me, but I wanted them to stop.

My parents like to make it seem to everyone else that we are this perfect family with this perfect life, but when I turned 11 my father began getting aggressive.

At first he would just say hurtful things to me like how he never wanted me or how I was a disgrace. I didn't understand why he hated me so much but I honestly didn't blame him. I was a troubled child.

Then he hit me for the first time when I talked back. He apologized the next day but still continued to do it, day after day. My mother never interfered. She's just stood there, watching in amusement. When I started getting noticeable bruises he would hit me in other places, like my stomach or arms, occasionally - when he was overcome with rage - he'd embed the burning end of his cigars into my skin.

Last night I was watching the grandfather clock in the kitchen waiting for it to chime 12 times.

When you live in a strict household you master the art of being quiet, being able to walk down the stairs without making a peep, or being able to sneak food at night when you're hungry. Last night I wasn't as careful. I woke up to my father screaming my name from down the stairs.

"Ara! Get your ass down here now!" I learned not to respond when they yell at me. I just simply nod and say 'Yes sir' or 'Yes ma'am'.

I silently swung my legs over the side of my bed and slipped on my shoes. My room was bare. Nothing but a bed and closet. It looked as if I was living in a hotel room.

As I stepped down the stairs, I took a deep breath, looking at my feet. Anytime I get screamed at or hit, it makes me feel small. Like I could be crushed by just one step.

When I reached the living room I saw my father and mother sitting on the grey couch. When he noticed I was there he shot up and hurried towards me. I quickly made a few steps backwards. His fingers clamped around my arm and he gave me a harsh tug, leading me to his office.

" I thought we talked about you staying up late at night! You kept me and your mother awake for nearly two hours!" He screeched, spit flying from his mouth.

"Father-" I started but was interrupted. SLAP, he strikes his large hand across my face. My head turned at the impact and I reached my hand to hold the spot, wincing at the touch. I looked up at my father, his face was red and his fists were clenched. I could feel tears stinging at the brim of my eyes. I cannot cry. I will not cry. I am not weak.