↷Alora, A 16-year-old girl, trapped in a world of fear and silence, endures the cruel and unrelenting abuse of her father. Though she hides behind a mask of strength, the emotional and physical scars run deep. With no escape and no one to turn to, s...
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❧WARNING!! - r$pe, violence, assault.
I walk back home, my head down and panting. My ribs are aching.
A weird black car keeps following behind me, I quicken my pace only for it to stop next to me.
"Hey, Do you need a ride back home?" It's Elias, and the other blond-haired boy, I never got his name tho. I look at him then ahead of me. "I think I'm good, my walk isn't that long" I say blankly.
"No worries, I'll see you around doll." Elias says, Doll? What the fuck? He drives off and I continue my long journey. I don't know Elias enough to trust him.
Who knows? He might just want sex and he'll leave me on the street.
I need to get a life.
I sigh when I see my so-called home in the distance, My father's car is in the driveway. I'm scared.
I walk in and immediately take my shoes off and try to sneakily make my way upstairs.
"Make dinner." My father says sternly while writing something on a piece of paper, I nod and walk into the kitchen. "Use your fucking words." He slaps me, "Yes, father."
"Don't call me father you terrible excuse of daughter." He pushes me into the counter. My ribs ache, I wrap an arm around myself. "Do you want me to repeat the rules?" I shake my head but quickly speak up. "No, sir."
He takes his belt off and grabs me by my hair into the basement.
I haven't been here in a while.
Welcome home.
I'm pushed into the concrete wall, I whimper in pain and slide down onto the floor. He rips my hoodie off me, I quickly try to cover as much of myself as possible. Even tho i'm wearing a bra.
He grabs my arm and drags me to the corner.
He handcuffs me to the wall, I know where this is going now.
I just don't know my purpose anymore, I have no purpose. Why am I here?
"Rule number 1," His belt meets my back with a loud sound, I jolt and let out a loud scream of pain. "Don't fucking scream." His belt meets my back once more.
"Rule number 2," He kicks my back.
"Don't call me father." He continues his torture on my back. I let out a loud cry in pain.
The constant pressure of a belt digging into my back feels like a persistent sharp ache, with each movement intensifying the discomfort. The leather belt material presses harshly onto my skin creating huge cuts, creating a relentless burning sensation.
