Abused and Unloved~

The Beginning

Slash Party Wednesday

I loathed this day, I mean— I despise every day of the week but today is particularly horrible because it was Slash Party Wednesday.

On this recurrent special day, my parents get their leather whips and lacerate me until I am unconscious.

It's lots of fun, I promise.

Realistically, I shouldn't be complaining, Wednesday was the easiest day of the agony and torture imbued week.

Each day had a specific designation so I could remember how many painkillers I had to take pre and post battle.

There was Hot Poker Monday, Kick Stomach Tuesday, Cut Arm Thursday, and last but not least, Drown in the Toilet Friday.

My parents were extremely organized. One of those OCD types I suppose.

Saturdays and Sundays were my days off. Not because my guardians were amiable and wanted to give me time to recover, but because they didn't come home till late, and by the time they did I was asleep and they were plastered.

The worst they'll do is weakly slap me across the face for a few quick giggles. I'm so accustomed to it by now, it hardly stirs me.

My parents named me Jessica after that famous singer from the nineties. It's evident they always expected way too much from me, but I was just Jessica. Jessica Cortez.

This is the story of my life, the most veracious retelling you'll ever read detailing how everything turned completely upside down. It's all based on real events and is completely accurate.

You could say I'm abused or you could be like other arrogant assholes and say I'm just "getting the discipline I deserve."

My mother doesn't really label it abuse— she calls it teaching. Most of the time I call her a fucking psycho, but what do I know?

In all honesty I have to commend her, the one thing she's never been is repetitive or unimaginative. She always comes up with a impressive excuse for why she does what she does.

She calls a beating a lesson, a scar a reminder, and blood is "liquid of the weak."

She claims she wants me to learn the fundamentals of being perfect, but perfect is tethered to perception. What she finds wonderful and beautiful is usually terrible and insanely painful for me.

I can never be flawless in her eyes unless I do exactly what she wants, when she wants it. Perfection is impossible, but she knows this of course.

Even if I had gone through the day doing everything that was asked of me, it still wouldn't be enough. It's never enough for her, for them.

They always make sure I know that, that it's engrained in each synaptic connection of my neurons along with their insightful tips.

Occasionally their tidbits are pretty helpful: "Stop breathing..." That was my favorite one, very obliging. But there are plenty of others: "Stop talking.." and, "Don't show your emotions.." or another crowd favorite, "Fuck off..."

They may think I'm not listening but I certainly am.

In a completely real and unsarcastic manner, I try. I mean I really try. I want to be accepted and loved by my family— despite them being horrible degenerate people who criticize and belittle me. All I want is for them to be pleased and ultimately satisfied with me. But if there's anything I've learned from this cruel world and the dreadful people I live with, it's that the dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed. And I was facing harsh consequences for my alleged misdeeds as a child— a life sentence it seems.

My younger sister is the dearest, the darling, and this is in no way a witticism. My little sister isn't conscious of my beatings or punishments and my parents never lay a disciplinary hand on her. She is the apple of their eye.

Every time my parents wrap up their disciplinary sessions, even if I'm unconscious, they throw me in a tub filled with warm water and clean me up.

Truthfully, I don't know how they do it. Parents of the year. The chore of having to carry their dead weight, numbed adolescent.

After the cleanup, I'm usually covered in an inordinate amount of makeup to hide the evidence.

I own an unreasonable amount of cosmetics, but the collection is far from that of a beauty guru. Just honey toned foundations and concealers, constantly stocked to avoid problematic suspicions.

That's about it.

I find it hard to complain for too long though. Yeah, life sucks but others have it worse right? At least I'm not dying from some incurable disease.

Other than depression.

Evidently, I'm grateful for the few good things I have. At least I have a personality and a solid chance at making it to Heaven or whatever possible pleasant afterlife there is.

My parents are certainly doomed to a fiery inferno type of hell and part of me sympathizes since I doubt they'll be given any cover up tools for the heat based damage.

Thankfully my sister leads a good life, and though she can be a bit narcissistic and clueless— I love her, and I would protect her with every microfiber in my being. She's the only decent thing in my world.

My parents aren't rich, they don't shower her with gifts galore. She's not the ugly spoiled stepsister while I'm the poor, beaten, enslaved Cinderella. But she does have things to be proud of; from what I gather she has great friends, amazing— yet scarily phony— parents, and a boyfriend. A fling really.

In my opinion she didn't need a boyfriend and I couldn't understand for the life of me why she had one, she had the mental maturity of a two year old but if I were to ever say that to her face she'd probably spit out a snitch faster than Harry Potter.

Ultimately though I couldn't resent her for not knowing about my adversities and not understanding, because most of the time she was oblivious when it came to problems that weren't her own. I only wished she knew that every time she blabbed on me, even if it was with good intentions, she was making my life fall apart faster than a Hidden Nature Valley Granola Bar.

She can be extremely frustrating to deal with, especially with her tendency to whine and pout excessively, but without her I probably wouldn't even be alive right now.

If I died she would definitely notice and her theatrical persona would presumably do something stupid and dramatic landing my parents in jail. Or she could just start to hate them which would simply break the lumps of coal they call hearts.

Because of this my parents are remarkably careful, it keeps them from completely kicking my bucket.

Do I want to die? I'm not really sure I do. If I am being completely honest, the dark and unspeakable thought of suicide has reared my mind, but I guess I've just been waiting. I'm not entirely sure what I've been waiting for, but I know that something better is out there. I know my destiny wasn't to simply entertain these demons by being their play toy for a few years before throwing in the towel. I will be rewarded for my strength and perseverance one day.

Hopefully.

There is so much earth out there that I haven't seen, it would be really shitty, and incredibly selfish if I just gave up fighting when I know there's possibly a bigger purpose I have to fulfill.

So it begins, the beginning of the end.