His Beauty

Chapter One

Elle~

"Elle!" Father yelled. I was upstairs putting his clothes away, into his drawers and closet.

"Yes, Father?" I called down to him.

Soon enough, I heard heavy footsteps climb the stairs.

"Where are you?!" Father yelled.

"Putting away your clothes in your room, Father." I called back, my hands already starting to shake.

The footsteps neared the room, and without looking up, I could tell he was in the doorway.

"Why hasn't the kitchen floor been waxed yet?!" Father yelled, his anger on the verge of snapping in two.

"I waxed it already, Father. Yesterday, remember?" I closed the last drawer, and watched my fingers shake continuously.

" Wax it again!" He shouted.

"But-" I stuttered, realized my mistake, and let out a yelp as Father grabbed the front of my three sizes too small shirt, and came face-to-face with his ice-cold eyes.

"What did you just say?" Father sneered, giving me a face of disgust.

"N-Nothing, Father." I stuttered, afraid of what was to come.

Father then placed me down, and I thought I was ok, but I was wrong, horribly wrong.

"You just said the 'but' word." Father growled, and I started to back away.

"You piece of crap!" Father screamed, grabbing me by my long, blond locks of hair and dragged me out of the room and down the stairs, ignoring my cries.

He took me down to our basement, and tied my hands to a post.

He's going to whip me.

I soon felt and heard the ripping of my shirt, and heard the unbuckling of his belt.

I screamed as the first lash of the belt made contact with my skin, and soon after, my screams turned into small, pitiful cries with every single lash.

After many lashes, I heard his belt being put back in its original place, and he walked over to my post, untying my hands, causing me to fall onto my side.

Father crouched down next to me and growled, "Don't say that word ever again.", and walked back up the stairs, turning off the lights, and leaving me in pitch black.

I wish Mother was still alive. When I was almost one, my mother found out that she had a type of cancer that didn't have any medicine that could help her through it. She died two weeks before my first birthday, and when I was 5, my loving father turned into a monster. He started abusing me, calling me names, and said that if I had never have been born, my mother would still be here with him.

Slowly, I got up from the stone cold floor, and walked slowly up the stairs to my room. I had a large bedroom and a bathroom adjoined to it.

As I walked into my bathroom, I glanced at myself in the mirror, and peeled off the ruined shirt, gazing at the new cuts that covered my back. When I was 10, I was whipped for the first time. My back now looks like a spider web. I took off my other articles of clothing, and stepped into the walk-in shower. As I lathered shampoo into my hair, I could see blood flowing toward the drain.

When I finished my shower, I took a look at my back and winced. Many of my scars were cut open, and new ones would take their place. I grabbed my tube of Neosporin and covered my entire back with the substance, feeling the pain slowly start to go away. I left my bathroom, and I went to my bed with only pajama bottoms on. If I would put a shirt on, my wounds would make my shirt stick to them and make the pain horrible as I separated the shirt from them in there morning. So I went to bed on my stomach, with the sheets covering me from the waist down, and my dreams took over.