| The Rising Moon: The Awakening of a Demi-Goddess |

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⚠️WARNING!⚠️ This chapter contains triggers, such as

-Child Abuse

-Alcohol Abuse

-Eating Disorder

-Self Harm

If any of these trigger you or bring trauma, please CLICK OFF!

Charolette was sitting in the living room, her legs dangling off the black leather couch. In her hands was a Greek mythology book, filled with stories about all of the famous heros and tales. She flipped a page, interested in the story of  how poor Icarus had flown to close to the sun, the tale of how Prometheus had sculpted and created the humans, and how King Midas had earned his golden touch. She was tucked  into the corner of the couch, at an angle she hoped made the book less noticeable. 

A shadow loomed over her and she turned to see angry brown eyes glaring at her. She quickly shuffled the book away, hoping that she hadn't been caught.

"Charolette. What were you holding in your hands?"  Portia's voice was condescending and eerie. Charolette slowly turned around, and gingerly slid out the book she was reading. Portia's eyes dilated at the sight of it. 

"What. Do I always tell you?"  Portia's voice was threatening and cold, which made Charolette shiver. 

"That.. that I shouldn't read. But..  it's not fair! You let Helios- James read because he's a boy! We're not living in the 1900-" WHACK! Portia smacked Charolette in the face, leaving a large, red, burning mark. Portia was breathing heavily.

"Do not speak to me with that tone. Women are meant to be polite. Elegant. They should not be dotting around with books if you ask me. Do you understand?" Portia spoke to her as if her opinion wasn't worth anything. Charolette glared at her.

Her mother had taught her differently. She had educated her, saying that knowledge and information was one of the greatest weapons, only second to compassion and kindness. But now her mother wasn't here. She was dead. Murdered in a mass suicide, four years ago, leaving Charolette and her twin brother James to an orphanage, where Portia had adopted them and taught them the "proper" ways of living.

The crude women had even changed their names. From Celeste (Celestial was her full name) to Charolette. "Because Celeste has some sort of  gregarian look to it. But Charolette, Charolette is a name full of elegance and beauty, something you clearly lack," Portia had told her. 

It still stung. Her own name, stripped away from her. Like Portia could remove her own past. She could sense the withering look Portia sent her. "No. I don't think you do understand. You need a lesson in grace. One that has been neglected for too long," Charolette shivered, wondering what she meant by that. Portia had abused her before; your average slaps and pinches and scars and bruises, but something felt different this time. 

Portia exited the room, leaving Charolette planted in her seat for a few moments before gingerly standing up. If she left now, maybe Portia would cool off and forgive her? She took a few steps, freezing in place when Portia entered the room again, a bottle of Vodka in her hand. Portia popped the cap open and chugged, gulping down almost the whole thing. Charolette didn't know much about alcohol, but she knew that Vodka was pretty powerful. Portia left just a little bit left in the bottle, her eyes drooping and her gaze seething with hatred. 

Before Charolette could react, Portia lifted up the bottle and slammed it against her head, making her scream in pain. She could feel the shards of glass digging into her skin as the blood trickled down. Pain sliced through her, making tears well in her eyes.

Oh, but Portia wasn't done. She grabbed the bottle, now broken and sharp, and landed another hit, making Charolette scream more. 

And more.

And more.

For hours.

And hours.

Eventually, Portia got tired. But by then, Charolette was barely breathing, laying in her own pool of blood. There were bruises and scars and scratches and her mind was just numb. Portia gave her a scathing look.

"If I ever see you disobey me, I will personally make your life a living hell. You will either die by my hands, or die alone. Understand?" Charolettes stomach was nauseous as she fought the urge to throw up. Portia roughly picked her up by the hair and threw her out of the doorway, leaving the eight year old girl barely hanging for dear life. She struggled to walk down the hallways, trying to make it to her room. 

"What do we have here?" A chill voice sounded behind her. She exhaustedly turned to see James, with Jessica and Elizabeth behind him. He crossed his arms at the sight of her and scoffed.

"Hold her down," He ordered to the two girls. The complied, chocking her by the neck to keep her steady on the wall. She didn't even bother fighting back at this point. Why would it even matter anyways?

James, the sweet boy who used to play tag with her in the rain, violently punched her in the face, her cheek heating up with a burning sensation. He did it again and again, making her more bruised and bloodied than before. 

After a few minutes, he stopped, spitting on her face as a final gesture, before throwing her to the ground. Elizabeth and Jessica laughed at her, taunting her and saying despicable words, before joining James and strutting down the hallway like nothing had ever happened. 

Charolette laid there, hoping that she would die. That they would find her body, charge Portia and her 'siblings' of assault, and that even if she were to be dead, she would have some sort of victory.

But she knew that wouldn't happen. With Portia's powerful influence, there was no point in daydreaming. She slowly heaved herself up and stumbled to her room, her throat burning, her lunges aching. She glanced at her bed and trudged towards it, collapsing. She would never trust anyone. Ever.

Celestial woke up with a gasp, cold sweat dripping down her forehead. Her hands were rapidly shaking. The worst part? That wasn't a nightmare. It was a memory. A few tears fell from her face, but she quickly brushed them off and flicked on the lights, her eyes glancing at the food on her bedside table. She picked up the plate, and looked at her large window. It was a whole wall made out of glass, but could still be openable in case of emergencies. Just like she had been doing for the past few days, she opened it and dumped her food out, rage filling her body. She slammed the empty plate on the floor, the shards dancing as they clattered everywhere.

The thought of broken glass itself made her shiver and cover her mouth. She swallowed, and out of pure anger, grabbed her backpack and opened it. She pulled out a thin, sleek knife she had tucked in away for safety, and uncapped it. 

Slowly, she dragged it across her skin, the blood bubbling out. Pain sliced through her, but she embraced it, her breathing calming down a bit. She deserved the pain. 

Cut. Cut. Cut.

Everything, her mothers murder, her horrible family with Portia, her heartbreak over Nico, she deserved it all.

Cut. Cut. Cut.

She was responsible for so much pain. So many deaths. She had seen things she wasn't supposed to.

Cut. Cut. Cut.

And she'd

never 

forgive herself.

I had to re-write this chapter TWICE cause my Pages and iCloud was bullying me-

will just be writing the story on Wattpad for now (hopefully nothing happens ;-;)