A Better Life (Beatles)

Chapter 3

Tiffany's POV

I hopelessly screamed at the top of my lungs as she dragged me into the house and threw me onto the hardwood floor.

"This will teach you to run away!" She kicked my shins repeatedly so I couldn't run again. 

She then had my sister, Candace, hold me down on the floor while she got something from another room.

"Fuck you, Tiffany." She said with gritted teeth. 

Seconds later my mother came back holding something behind her back, wearing a menacing smile on her plastic face. 

"This is the day you will die. Any last words?" She asked as she pulled the object out from behind her back. I gasped upon realizing that she was holding a knife.

I tried to squirm away, but each time I tried to escape my sister's grip, my mom would slash my stomach.

All I could think of was that I would die. I would die. I would die. Those were the thoughts that made the adrenaline kick in. I threw up my foot and knocked the knife out of my mother's hands before prying myself out of Candace's grip. 

And once again, I ran out of the house with my ankle crunching every step I took. 

***

I woke up crying silently on a small hospital bed. 

Paul was sitting on a chair in the corner, sleeping soundly and snoring softly. So I stifled my sobs to avoid waking him up.

After a few moments Paul's eyes fluttered open and he rubbed them to wake himself up. I tried to stop crying but I couldn't.

"What's wrong love?" He asked, getting up and walking over to me.

"I've been having really bad luck with my dreams lately." I said, wiping my nose.

"What are they about?" He asked me.

"My mom." I whispered, sniffing away my tears and looking Paul in the eyes.

"I will never let that lady get her nasty fingers on you ever again." He said which made me smile.

"Her fingers are actually really nice. She gets them manicured every week." I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

It seemed to work, since Paul chuckled and shoved my shoulder.

"You know what I mean." He said with a smile.

"Yeah, I do. Thank you." I smiled, actually genuinely happy.

Me and Paul talked about my injuries for a few minutes, where I was told by him that I had broken my ankle on my right leg and my shin on my left leg.

I laughed at that, knowing that my broken ankle had nothing to do with my mom.

"What's so funny?" Paul asked.

I shook my head, keeping that thought to myself. No one would ever know that it was my own stupidity that broke my ankle. 

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After six weeks in the hospital, I was finally freed.

The boys wanted me to stay at the hospital until my casts were taken off. Since I couldn't walk and I would have to be on a wheelchair they didn't want me to be confined to just one floor of their house when I could roam throughout the entire hospital.

I was very glad when I could leave however, as the hospital food was revolting and people would often come in to sanitize my room when I wasn't there.