Harper

HER PAST

Harper's pov:

I stood there dumbfounded, everyone looked at me waiting for an explanation that I couldn't give. "Are you suddenly mute?" Hardin screamed, making me flinch. I looked down embarrassed; I didn't think they would find out. "Speak," Hades commanded in the same cold voice he used on me in the office. 

I suddenly felt the urge to vomit, and that's what I did. I ran straight to my room and removed the contents from my stomach. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't notice Caroline rubbing my back lightly. I looked into her glossy eyes and hugged her so tight. I think I heard her bone crack, which made her cry and chuckle at the same time.

 "Would you like explaining the drawing?" This unexpected question destroyed the mood, and I sighed as I left the bathroom and joined everyone else in the room. It was an unusual moment, as everyone else patiently waited for me to start, except for Hardin, who just rolled his eyes.

I could hear my inner voice repeating, "You can do this! You can do this! You can do this!" I took a deep breath and began to speak. The room was filled with a mix of misfits, Hades, Tyrus, Hunter and Hardin, who all preferred standing rather than sitting.

I decided to start from the beginning where my pain began

I was raised in Suriname, a country located in South America. As a child, I was often told that my family didn't want me, which led to me being placed into the foster care system when I was just three years old. During my time in these homes, I experienced physical and emotional abuse that left deep emotional scars.

The foster care system was not a safe haven for me. I was subjected to verbal and physical abuse by the people who were supposed to care for me. I was beaten, thrown down stairs, and had my hair pulled. The emotional trauma I experienced during this time was immense, and it took a toll on my mental health.

One day, while I was in the bathtub crying, I realised that I couldn't cry anymore. I had developed a disease called "Anhedonia Depression," which stopped the flow of tears from my eyes. This condition made it even harder for me to express my emotions, further isolating me from the people around me.

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As I looked at their facial expressions, I couldn't help but feel a mix of fear and vulnerability. I decided to mention one of my disorders, expecting disgust, but instead, they showed genuine curiosity. I continued with my story, hoping to find solace in sharing my experiences.

When I turned five, I was placed in the care of my step-parents, believing that my life was about to change for the better. However, two weeks after moving in with them, I realised that things were far from ideal.

One morning, when my step-mother had already left for work, it was just me and my step-father at home. As I tried to get out of bed, he entered my room and forced me into the shower. He attempted to remove my clothes, but I fought back with all my might. Unfortunately, my resistance earned me a heavy beating, which left a lasting scar on my right eye.

As I cleaned the makeup, their expressions changed to one of shock and disbelief.

After that day, I was afraid to sleep. I felt so vulnerable, like he would come in and punish me again. For months, I kept my eyes wide open through the night, which caused my insomnia. He continued to do this to me for months.

One day, I asked him, "What would you do if I told someone?" He pulled out his belt, smacked me, and said, "If you tell anybody, I will hurt you. I will send you back to foster care and you will have nobody." I never wanted to go back to foster care, so I had to deal with the abuse for 2 more years.

But it became worse when I turned seven. My adoptive-mum lost her job and started drinking. Every time she would come back from the club, she would insult me, calling me names like slut, whore, worthless. I didn't cry...no...I couldn't cry, every thing became too much. One day, I made the mistake to talk back when she called me brainless, because I knew for a fact that was all her fault.

I remember the day she dragged me down to the basement, which was my room. It was a place where I sought solace and peace, but that day, it turned into a chamber of torment. She whipped me, leaving marks on my skin, and then she engraved the name "White" on my thighs. When I mustered the courage to ask her why she did it, her response was chilling. She said, "It's because you will forever be a White, and I will torment you until the day you die."

After that traumatic incident, I made a decision that would shape my life for years to come. I refused to speak again, fearing that any words I uttered might lead to more suffering. The silence became my shield, my way of protecting myself from further harm.

It wasn't until I met my new neighbours that I felt a glimmer of hope. They were kind and understanding, and I found myself opening up to them without reservation. However, little did I know that my inability to speak in certain situations had a name - Selective Mutism. When this condition was discovered two years later, it only fuelled the hatred my step-parents harboured towards me.

As my 10th birthday approached, I held onto the hope that perhaps reaching this milestone would earn me their love and acceptance. But reality shattered those expectations. On that day, everything seemed to be going well until I experienced a significant change in my body - my first period. The fear of how my adoptive-mother would react if she found out led me to hide this natural occurrence from her.

On the night of my birth day, my step-dad came smiling, a rare sight that I was actually happy to see. I was oblivious to the fact that he had something else behind his back. He came home with a pre-

A sudden thought struck me - "I will never tell anyone." It was a promise I had made to myself.

Umm, he came home with my pre-sent but I forgot It, I said scratching the back of my neck awkwardly, anyway, I rushed towards him and embraced him tightly, overflowing with happiness. However, my joy was short-lived as he unexpectedly slapped me hard across the face. The shock left me speechless, and that night, I couldn't bring myself to eat.

The abuse didn't end there; it continued for three long years. The beatings and starvation took a toll on my health, leading to various diseases - some inherited and others a result of the relentless mistreatment.

As time passed, I found myself facing my biological parents, bracing for their inevitable disgust and disappointment. With a heavy heart, I lowered my gaze until Caroline stepped forward and lifted my chin, offering me a comforting embrace. Her warmth and compassion were a stark contrast to the cold indifference of the others who left without uttering a word.

I felt a whirlwind of emotions swirling within me as I stood there, trying to process the aftermath of my revelation. It was a strange mix of happiness and sadness that engulfed me. On one hand, I was happy because I was finally free from the burden of keeping it to myself. On the other hand, I couldn't shake off the lingering sadness stemming from the lack of comfort or even a hint of pity from my Biological's. It was a bittersweet moment, and deep down, I knew that maybe I deserved it. However, there was still a glimmer of hope that they wouldn't be too angry when they eventually find out about Him.

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