Death Wish?

Hey guys, we haven't written anything in a while,

but we hope you'll like this! Please comment 

and tell us what you think, and if anyone

has any ideas on how we could make it better

please tell us!

~Emily(: & Daylen(:

Millions of people are abused by someone they 

know, loved, or lived with. 

Some  get help, but some never leave the situation, whether it's at home or school.

Some are saved by the police, a family member, or friend.

But others die being beaten, raped, tortured.

Some escape that life. Some die trying.

Some kill themselves looking for a relief, a way out.

Some know what's being done to them is wrong.

But others believe they deserve it...

because it's all theyv'e ever known, and their abusers tell them it's like that everywhere else.

Some are just in need of a friend, someone to keep their outlook on life brighter.

I was one of those people.

Walking through the halls at school, I used to wonder if that was how other kids lives at home are.Are their mom and dad

like mine? Did they get treated the same as me? Was I just making too big of a deal out of the punches and kicks from last night?

In all reality I knew it wasn't how other kids were treated by their parents, but it used to soften the mental blows to think that it was.

It was the only comfort I had when he would walk through the door and I could smell the alcohol on my father's breath. I could see the drugs in my mother's

eyes.

When he would come in and call my name.

When I would walk slowly to the living room, keeping my eyes on the floor.

while he stalked up behind me slowly circling like a lion does to its prey.

While the first blows came to my face, my arms, my stomach, or my back.

While I endured kicks to my ribs as I laid on the floor pleading for him to stop.

While he yelled at me to "suck it up" or to "quit crying".

While he told me "I was a murderer" and how "I'm such a fucking failure".

When I could hear the bones snap in my arms, legs, or ribs.

As he would take off my shirt and tell me I deserved this.

As he tore off my sweats that I'd put on after school.

As my mother laughed from the couch smoking whatever was new this week.

As he unbuckled his belt, and whipped me with it.

As he took his colorful little plastic package out of his pocket.

As he opened it and took out the condom.

As he pulled down his boxers and put in on.

As my own father raped me and my mother simply watched.

During these moments when he'd leave my room, telling me he loved me, softly closing the door.

During these nights that I'd lie awake for hours crying, going mentally numb.

During the mornings the next day when I woke up, wondering what that night would hold for me.

I'd just wanted to be released. I'd felt like an animal, frightened and trapped. The thought of getting away was almost enough to make unduring the pain bearable.

But I'd known.

I'd 'known' if I ever tried to run they'd find me. They'd find me, and they'd punish me worse than ever before. I knew that these people- these people that were

supposed to be my loving parents, these monsters that were unleashed upon me during the night- had no limits, had no regret, no guilt, they had no problem

taking me to the brink of death... As long as they could have me the next night.

Looking back I can't believe I never turned them in. I was so pathetic, I shouldn't have been afraid of those people. I used to think I did deserve it. That I had

done something terrible to provoke this behavior from them.

Now, I know that I was stupid for believing any of the crap they fed me. Now, I have a better state of mind. Now I realize just how bad I had it back then.

Now, I feel so blessed to have met Eli.

I just wished it had played out better.

And now, I'll be telling you my story... A story that I wish could have been different from the start.

But I can't. My story is written.

Written in the blood and tears I shed during that horrific sixteen years.

Written in the alcohol and liquor my father consumed.

Written in the drugs and pills my mother was hooked on.

Written in the fear and obedience he demanded of me.

Written in my hatred and fear of him.

And now told by  my cuts, scars, and bruises.