Savior- An Andy Biersack Love Story

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Chloe

The feeling of the glass beer bottle shattering on the back of my head was excruciating. Tears poured out of my eyes as I cried out, the back of my head searing in pain.

I ran up the stairs and went into my room, throwing my book bag on the floor. Quietly, I shut my door and locked it.

Reaching my hands behind my head, I picked out the tiny shards of glass from my hair.

I was lucky, his bottle hadn't cut me this time.

I threw the pieces of glass into my trash can, and sat down on my bed. I could hear them screaming at each other. What they were arguing about this time was unknown to me.

I pulled my iPod from my pocket, and was about to put my headphones into my ear, when I heard the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Get your fucking ass down stairs and do the dishes!" My father screamed, banging forcefully on the door. I sighed inwardly, placing my iPod on my desk.

"Hurry the fuck up!" He yelled impatiently.

"I'm coming," I said, trying to keep my voice level. Yelling back at him would only make it worse for me. I opened my door and found myself standing very close to him. I looked up at him, waiting for him to move.

Abruptly, he wrapped his hand tightly around the back of my neck, and started to drag me down the stairs. I tried not to resist him, but the pain in my neck was causing my body to twist involuntarily. It was as if my body was trying to get away from him.

When he had dragged me completely down the stairs, he shoved me into the kitchen.

I looked at the pile of dishes by the sink. There were so many.

"Do all these damn dishes, and put them away," he said, smacking me in the back of the head. "And dry them all the way off this time," he growled. "We're going out." He said, saying nothing more. By going out, I knew that he meant the bar. Which meant they wouldn't be home until tomorrow morning.

"Bye sweetheart," my mother called cheerily from the living room. I gritted my teeth, trying to hold in my anger. They were so demented. And bipolar. First they scream and beat, then they coo and hug.

"Tell your mother goodbye," my father said, gripping my whole arm with his fist. He pulled me into the living room to face her. She was wearing one of her slutty dresses, and her face was plastered with make up.

"Goodbye mother," I said, trying to keep my voice from being bitter. She smiled and nodded her head, and my father let go of my arm. I couldn't feel it anymore, and my fingers had gone purple because of the lack of blood flow in my arm.

Without another word, they walked out the door. When I heard the car start and pull out of the driveway, I went back into the kitchen and started doing the dishes.

When I had finished drying and had put all the dishes away, I walked back up the stairs and into my room. My head was pounding, and so was my arm. Physically, I was in pain. But once again, emotionally, I felt nothing.

Sitting on my bed, I tried to reason with myself as I fought the ever-present urge to cut.

I don't have to do this.

(Yes you do)

I am stronger than this.

(You're weak)

It's not going to do anything for me.

(You'll feel better. And you know it)

I sat contemplating with myself, looking at my wrists.