Bad Girls Don't Cry

Chapter 1: little girl lost

WARNING: THIS BOOK CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENTS SUCH AS LANGUAGE, SEXUAL INTERCOURSE, VIOLENCE, DRUG USE, & ADULT THEMES.

"I hate you!" I screamed, digging my nails into his skin.

"I hate your ass too," he responded, his hands making their way around my neck as he pinned me down on the bed. We spent the next ten minutes going back and forth like this, only it felt like an hour, or it felt like forever.

I gave it my all, I hit him with all my strength, but he overpowered me every time. It always happened like this until I ran out of strength and eventually gave up. I would stop fighting, he'd let me go, and I would just lay there and cry.

My mother always told me if a man hates you, he'll make you suffer; but what about a man who loves and hates you at the same time? A man who breaks you down, just so he can build you right back up.

I always wondered why: if he knew he had so much power over me, why would he put me through this instead of just taking away the pain? I often wonder how it got like this, in the beginning, it was all so innocent, then over time it began to rot and fester like a scab.

He would never hold me, never be sorry, never tells me he loves me, even though he knows he could end it all. Then he'd just come back, when he was ready, when HE felt like he wanted to make things right.

As I lay there in bed I closed my eyes and then let my mind drift to another time, before all of this even began. I was just a teenager trapped in a 20-something-old body, desperate to escape. I thought rainbows were waiting for me on the other side of the brick castle my parents built for me, but I soon discovered there was nothing but ravening wolves waiting to devour the girl in red.

3 months earlier...

I wasn't always so hateful. I started off innocent, in a pool made out of the insides of my mother, Helen. I faintly remember Ludwig Van Beethoven playing on a loop endlessly while I sploshed around and grew like a flower; until the vines of me tore through the first hole they could find.

The night I was born, June 20, 2001, while my mother was pushing me out through the water, another woman less than 1,700 miles away was downing her children in it. Her name was Andrea Yates. She drowned her five children to save them from Satan, and from her own evil maternal influences.

Now, I know I'll go under a lot of fire for saying this, but if my mother knew 20 years later, that she'd have a daughter that hated her guts, would she have drowned me that night too?

Instead, I grew slowly, in an upper-class mansion. I'm not really sure when the abuse started, but it took up my whole world once it did. I shut down at an early age. I think I was 10 when I discovered that I could create an imaginary world in my head that was for me and for me alone.

I made friends, best friends, enemies, and a new mother and father. I built up a world of magic and pretend to escape what my life really was, and everything was fine until one day:

"Charlotte, who are you talking to?" My mother asked as I conversed with my imaginary boyfriend.

"No one," I said, my head down.

She took me straight to a child psychiatrist the next day.

"It seems as though she has schizophrenia, ADHD, and she may also be bipolar as well, but right now she's too young to tell."

I didn't know what fancy word that was back then, all I knew was that I wanted a more normal life than I had, and I pretended that it was. I used to go to a coed private school until I started growing boobs and my mom found out I was getting rape threats from one of the older boys.