Wounded

Chapter One: A Life Of Fear

Yelling... always yelling.

I would always run to my room and curl into a ball in the corner. When the yelling would get bad I'd cover my ears and fall asleep only to wake up in that same corner the next day.

That's how I lived out the first sixteen years of my life, cowering in fear from my parent's hate for each other and constantly fearing for my safety whenever they were home. That was my life.

I'm in my junior year of high school, I've never been able to make friends, no one wants to be friends with the school's punching bag. I became the outcast in elementary school so it's not like anyone will go against the bullying that's gone on for years. I never did anything wrong, I'm just poor. Third grade was when the other kids started to realize that I wore dirty clothes that could be considered rags because of how old they were. They started picking on me and the bullying just continued from there. To this day I've never had a backpack, mom said it was something I didn't deserve, so it's just the absolute joy of my peers to shove me and watch me scramble to pick up all my school supplies.

My mom is the closest thing to a functional role model. I mean she's the only one who won't hit me. She'll say mean things to me all the time because she's usually drunk but....she doesn't hit me. Grandma said that mom is a drunk because she ruined her life by having me.

To my parents "Ana Morgan" is just the name on my birth certificate, I mean it's not like they have my birth certificate anymore but that's my legal name. To my parents, and everyone else in the family, my name is "fail". It's short for "failed abortion". Harsh but it's what I am. Mom got pregnant with my dad when she was in high school. She told me that they tried everything to abort me, but somehow I had survived. It's not my fault they didn't want to go to a clinic and get a real doctor to properly abort me. Rather than thinking I was the miracle child the doctors thought I was, I was the burden that required things like attention and money. They thought buying things like toys were a luxury I didn't deserve, it was money down the drain that they could be using for alcohol. Obviously they're not the best parents in the world but I still love them, they're the . No matter how much they beat me or verbally abuse me, I'm still the fifteen year old who loves my parents.

In reality, I've got no one. But that's fine because I have a little white teacup Pomeranian who goes by the name Mr. Cuddles. He is more precious to me than my own life. He's the bundle of joy I put above anyone else. My fifth grade teacher Mrs. Sharon had been a nice woman with a giant heart and had given me a puppy. She had told me that his name was Mr. Cuddles and that I would be happier if I had a friend. I loved Mr. Cuddles the most because he was my best friend, my only friend. Of course my parents were completely against the idea of having a dog but they were too drunk to remember that they said no.

I run home from school everyday so Mr. Cuddles wouldn't be lonely. As soon as I open the door I would hear little jingle of his bells on his collar then see a little ball of fluff run towards the door for me. He always knew when I was home so he would crawl out from under my blankets to greet me. That little ball of fur has been there for me for the past ten years. Whenever Mama and Papa would fight, Mr. Cuddles would comfort me till I'd fall asleep with him by my side. He's all I've got.

Only recently the fights have ended with Papa leaving the house only to come home completely drunk. When Papa would come home drunk I could hear the fight from before making a return only this time it would be worse. They usually end in Mama getting beat. Even from my room I could hear Papa hitting Mama.

I could hear her begging for him to stop.

I could hear her sobs once Papa had gone to sleep.

Day by day the amount of bruises on Mama would grow. One time she caught me staring and had told me, "You're going to end up just like me. A drunken bastard's bitch after he knocks you up."

"Mama... you're hurt."

"Worry about yourself because I sure as hell 'aint worried about you!" She took a swig of her vodka then looked back at me. "Well that man is out drinking and I'm going out so you can handle dinner for yourself."

I'd say I'm a pretty much used to cooking for myself. The only problem is if there is food to cook.

After Mama left I got up to start making dinner since I hadn't eaten anything at all yet.

It took me about ten minutes to go through the whole kitchen only to find absolutely nothing in there for me to eat, only alcohol and a lot of pills. Papa was in deep with drugs I guess. Well It looks like I won't be eating dinner tonight then.

I planned to wait till my parents realized that there wasn't any more food in the house because if I complained about anything I'd be in real trouble. So I stayed in my room waiting for Mr. Cuddles to come into my room with me, at least he had some food.

I probably laid on my bed for a couple of hours just waiting for someone to come home. When I finally drifted off to sleep, the front door slammed open only to have my drunken father stumble inside.

"Where's your Ma?!?" Papa wasn't even in my room and I could smell the alcohol that was basically spewing out of his pores.

"She went out tonight." I replied while covering my nose.

"Since that little whore can't be here to satisfy me then I guess you'll have to do for now." What? What was he even talking about?! I mean I knew what he meant but I'm his daughter!

Before I realized it, Papa was on my bed and inches away from my face. He smelt like he could be a walking bar for goodness sake!

Then he moved my hair away from my face and started to touch me in ways no father should ever be allowed to touch their child.

"Papa please st-"

"I am your father so fucking shut the hell up! You do as I say and NOT the other way around! I could do as I please with you! You're nothing but a fucking whore and you'll turn into your mother and get passed around like the fuck toy you are just like your damn mom!" Then Papa did what he's done to Mama so many times lately... he hit me. Again and again he repeatedly punched my already bruised and way too thin stomach till he went back to screaming at me.

He was really angry with me. In order to avoid anymore yelling and hitting I relaxed a bit so he would calm down a little. After he realized that I wouldn't fight back, he slid off my shirt and threw it to the other side of the bed. I shivered not because of the cold air on my skin, but because this was the first time in my life I was truly terrified.