La Principessa

Chapter 1

Anagapesis (N: Ann-ah-gap-eh-sis) - No longer feeling any affection for someone you once loved.
TW: PHYSICAL ABUSE.

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ANASTASIA'S POV

Coldwater filled my lungs as rough hands pushed my upper body into the water, the ripples swirling around me, overwhelming me.

I breathed in, blood pounding behind my weak eyes. My arms thrashed as I struggled to pry his hands off me. I gulped down water trying to breathe and as a result, ended up choking and coughing. All that did was amuse him, apparently, since he continued to drown me with harsher force. He howled with laughter as the shakes of his shoulders vibrated against my back, his firm grip loosening momentarily. My body fought for every last bit of air and my thrashing became more urgent and crazed, which irritated him.

Signing dramatically, he wrapped a fistful of my hair and pulled me up. I panted, the cold air around me bringing me back to the present, goosebumps arising on my wet skin as I breathed heavily, my chest rising with rapid speed.

You're probably wondering why on earth I was getting drowned right now. You see, they wanted to surprise me with a gift, a sick act of kindness, as they call it, which was a punishment for being born on this very day, 12 years ago. I exhaled slowly as my mother, Karen, walked up to me and took turns beating me with my father.

Both of them laugh loudly as they switch and notice the tiny flicks of emotion that manage to escape me, smug looks overtaking their faces each time. This was their game they liked to play; to see who could deliver more bruises than the other, to break me, to torture me, and for me to give them a reaction, any sort of response that I'm affected by them.

They claim that they need to punish me, that I deserve it and should be grateful. That I should take the hits with gratitude, not flinches and cries of pain, but instead with a smile and cries of thank you's slipping out of my bloody lips.

To them I am weak.

So the countless days when they beat me, I take it. I take the hits with nothing but a heavy heart knowing that the only way my parents spend time with me is through hits and punches. They hate it when I cry, for them crying is a weakness, not a strength. So I don't, I never cry and merely blink when the familiar sounds of their footsteps near my room and instead accept that this is my life.

The life where mantras they taught me —no—practically forced into my brain is all I know. The rules which took me time to understand, but that didn't deter them in the least. They instead, used this as an excuse to hurt me more, building a room just for me. They chained me to the walls where they whipped and burned me, repeating the rules and expectations until that's all I could say, all I could think of until it consumed me whole.

I can't recall most of my early childhood, whether it was because of the aftermath of everything bad that has ever happened to me, I wouldn't know. But what I do remember is them loving me or I think they did, I wouldn't be surprised if it all wasn't real or what I subconsciously desired as a little girl who was neglected and constantly hurt, wishing for something, anything but the constant abuse slicing through my skin every day.

What happened to them to treat me like this and change overnight is unknown. I wheeze, the desire to scream at the top of my lungs is strong, the pain so intense. I gaze at them snickering together, I can't help but wonder, why? Where has the man who would call me sweet names, and bandage up the cuts on my knees when I fell gone? Where has the mother who would spoil me with so much love and affection? Where are the parents who never put their hands on me and called me obscenities whenever they saw me? Now all they do is argue, fight and regularly take their anger out on me.