It's been decades since the Re-Establishment was taken down for good. Everyone grew up, settled down, had a few kids even.
But with old threats arising and time running out, will the new generation be able to take down a far too familiar enemy or w...
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TW: THIS CHAPTER WILL REFERENCE DOMESTIC ABUSE!!
|| For Archer and Abby, my day ones <3 ||
It had been cold today.
My cheeks had been tinged pink, my dress, a shade of violet which so perfectly matched the shade of the bruises formed along my body, had done little to hide my small frame from the biting cold and my father's inevitable wrath.
I had grown up to be a 7 year old with the mind of a 13 year old and the scars of a veteran who had suffered so long.
My bedroom door was closed as I sat, knees drawn up to my chest, head pressed down, shielding myself from any pain, any harm that could befall myself. The coverlet of my bed, pink, a rainbow spread across, was clutched in my small palm, a soft attempt at protection from him. Anything to escape the anger filled rage of my father, the lust to hurt overtaking his thoughts, coming home and making our lives miserable.
Will was still at school. My one solace, my aid to get through a day without breaking down, or stuttering and being hit or kicked or worse. Dad had Will put into a military school after Mom died, something about 'strengthening him so he wouldn't be soft or gay', two things our dad hated.
A knock at the door. 2 sets of footsteps. One recogniseable, one unknown. I had learned all the footsteps of my close family. Dad was harsh and unforgiving unless he had had alcohol, then it was more stumbly. Will was nimble, silent, perfect at sneaking out. Grandpa was always warm, in a way. This new footstep I didn't recognise.
The door swung open and I instinctively flinched back, habit enforcing my actions, almost like clockwork. If I was out of his line of sight, he may not hurt me as much. Might not bruise as badly. Might just be verbal this time.
Dad was stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed at me. His hair was pristine, suit immaculate. His face, however, was darkened, black circles under his eyes, face flushed. He had been drinking, I presumed. He was angry when he was intoxicated. Scary.
"Delilah," he sneered, fist clenching, and I fought back the fresh wave of tears already threatening to spill. "What are you doing? Why are you in here alone, huh?! Hiding from me like a coward?"
"N-no, dad, I just wanted to play in my room.." I said, my voice barely above a whisper, small and feeble, betraying my true intentions.
He sighed, almost like looking at a disappointed puppy than at his daughter. "Am I really that cruel that you have to hide from me, daughter, hm?"
"No.."
"No, sir."
"No, sir.." I repeated. I miss my mom. She died years ago, unknown causes. We all knew the causes. My mom never took drugs. They found her laced with everything. Dad was furious. It was a contract killing. No one was ever prosecuted. So he turned his fury at the justice system to fury at his children.
He stalked over, his expression shifting as he lifted me off of my feet with surprising ease, ignoring my squeal of terror. "Was that disrespect, Delilah?" he asked, his voice eerily calm.
"No!"
"Wrong answer," he seethed, hand striking across my face.
