Blood Guts And Farm Life

Backstory

Warning- abuse - drinking - language

(Mila pov)

I woke up in my bed, the familiar sound of my parents fighting echoing through the house. It had become such a routine that I didn't even need to guess anymore most likely, it was about Dad being drunk again. I lay there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, trying to block out the raised voices coming from the other room. But it was impossible to ignore. With a sigh, I finally swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and sat up. I waited until the shouting died down before getting up, moving quietly so I wouldn't attract any attention. so I just focused on getting something to eat, hoping they had calmed down enough for the rest of the morning to be quiet.

When my mom left, it was just me and my dad, and honestly, things only got worse from there. Without her around, he had no one else to take his frustrations out on but me. Most of the time, he'd either be passed out on the couch, surrounded by empty beer cans, or he'd lash out at me for the smallest things. I hated it. I hated being stuck with him, and I hated that Mom had left me to deal with it alone, as if none of it mattered to her. She had checked out long before she physically left it was like she didn't feel anything anymore, no concern, no love, nothing. It was like I didn't even exist to her. I sat at the kitchen table eating my cereal, trying to stay quiet and out of his way, hoping that maybe today would pass without any trouble. I kept my head down, focusing on the spoon in my hand, when I heard the sound of movement behind me. My dad had stirred from the couch and was slowly getting up, staggering over to me. I tensed up, knowing what was coming, but not daring to move.

He walked up to the table, and without warning, he swiped his arm across it, knocking my bowl of cereal onto the floor. Milk splattered across the tiles, and the bowl rolled to a stop by my feet. "Clean up your mess and do the dishes," he barked, his voice rough and cold. "I'm taking a shower."

I didn't say anything, just nodded, trying to hide the frustration and fear bubbling up inside me. I got up and started picking up the pieces, my hands shaking slightly as I tried to keep myself together. It was just another day another mess to clean up in more ways than one. I watched him walk away, and once he disappeared down the hall, I let out a deep breath, releasing the tension I'd been holding in. I crouched down to pick up the cereal from the floor, tossing them into the trash before grabbing some paper towels to wipe up the spilled milk. As I worked, I couldn't help but feel like I was trapped in a twisted version of Cinderella, stuck cleaning up mess after mess while everyone else went on with their lives. Except in my story, there was no fairy godmother, and no ball to sneak off to. I shook off the thought, reminding myself to just get through the day.

Once the floor was clean, I moved to the sink, starting on the dishes as he'd demanded. I loaded up the dishwasher, trying to keep my movements quiet to avoid drawing any more unwanted attention. When the dishes were finally done, I dried my hands on the towel, feeling a small sense of relief that the chores were out of the way, at least for now.

I went to the living room and sank down onto the couch, hoping for a brief moment of peace. I stared at the blank TV screen, trying to drown out the familiar unease that always hung in the air. A few minutes later, I heard the bathroom door creak open. My father emerged, his hair still damp from the shower, and my muscles instinctively tensed. I braced myself for whatever might come next, knowing that with him, it was always unpredictable. "Move," he ordered, and I quickly stood up as he shoved me aside. I held back the tears, not wanting to show any weakness, and quietly made my way to my room. Sitting at my desk, I tried to focus on my homework. Just one more year, I reminded myself one more year until I could move out and be free from all of this.

To be honest, sometimes I find myself wishing something drastic would happen to the world, something that would take my family out of the picture entirely. Is it just me, or does it feel like someone else is living this same life somewhere? If there were someone out there going through the same things, I think we'd probably be friends. But right now, it's just me, alone in this mess.

When I finished my homework, my dad barged into my room, his face twisted in anger. Without warning, he started yelling at me, his voice booming and filled with rage. "You useless piece of shit! You think you can just hide in here and do nothing?!" His words were sharp, cutting through the air as he stormed toward me. I flinched as he got closer, the familiar fear creeping in.

"You don't do a damn thing right!" he shouted, his voice dripping with hatred. He slammed his fist against the wall, making me jump. "I should've thrown you out a long time ago!" He moved so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath, his eyes wild and furious. Before I knew it, he shoved me hard against the desk, causing papers and books to scatter across the floor.

I held back the tears, my body trembling, knowing that fighting back would only make it worse. His words kept coming, a relentless stream of insults and curses, each one more hurtful than the last. I felt trapped, helpless, but I forced myself to stay quiet, waiting for the storm to pass.

A few hours later, my mom came back home with fast food, as usual, nothing for me. I was used to it by now, but I couldn't help thinking about how different I'd be when I became a mom someday I'd never treat my kid like this. Part of me wanted to go to the police, but I knew that if I did, I wouldn't have anywhere else to go.

After my dad finished yelling, he finally left my room and went to eat with my mom. I wasn't hungry, even though I'd barely had anything for breakfast. I stood up and decided to see if I could get some practice in with my crossbow. Leaving my room, I hesitated before asking, "Mom, Dad, can I go practice with my bow?"

They both glanced at me with disinterest. My dad rolled his eyes, muttering, "Whatever," while my mom just gave a slight nod in approval. I stepped outside and gently closed the front door behind me, feeling the cool air on my skin as I made my way toward the forest. The sky was painted in shades of pink and gold as the sun slowly dipped beyond the horizon, casting long shadows over the trees. Birds were chirping, their songs echoing softly through the fading light, and for a moment, everything felt peaceful, like the world was holding its breath. The beauty of it all took my breath away, wrapping around me like a blanket of calm, and for just a moment, I wanted to lose myself in it. I wanted to run run far away, into the depths of the forest where no one could find me.

But as much as I craved that freedom, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I stood there, heart pounding, the urge to flee strong, but my feet rooted to the ground. The thought of leaving it all behind was tempting, but the fear held me back. And deep down, I knew why. Even if I ran, my father would come after me, just like he always did when I was little. He had a way of finding me, no matter how far I tried to go. But now, it was different. Now, it was worse. There was a heaviness to it all, a weight that settled deep in my chest, reminding me that no matter how far I went, I couldn't escape him-not really.

(Time skip 2 years)

When I moved out of my abusive home at eighteen, I thought I had escaped for good. I believed I was finally free, but the abuse followed me. I married young-my husband, Alex, seemed like an escape at the time, but now he's the one hurting me. It's hard, knowing that no one would believe me. My parents never did. They always brushed it off, saying, "Oh, he's just acting that way because he likes you." It was the same with them, and no one ever believed me. But I got out once i know I can do it again. I have to, because I can't live like this anymore.

I'm nineteen now. Alex and I went on a trip to Georgia, a place I've always loved for its beauty. But when we arrived at the hotel, things took a turn. He hit me, leaving my face red and bruised. I locked myself in the bathroom and covered the marks with makeup, painting over my pain like I was some kind of doll. When I came out, Alex was already passed out drunk on the couch. We had only just arrived, and he was already like this.

Then, I heard breaking news on the TV-something about the dead walking. I could hardly believe it. But a strange thought crept into my mind. What if this was my chance to finally run? Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be able to find me this time. As I looked at Alex, his drunken, unconscious form reminded me too much of my father. The resemblance was uncanny, and it sent a chill through me. Shaking off the fear, I quickly packed my things.

This is the story of my life the story of how I keep running, hoping one day, I'll be truly free.

(An: guys I loved writing this I feel bad for my OC 😭 next chapter is about how Mila found Hershels farm)