Numb

Chapter 2

~Chapter 2~

I had ran from him. I was so scared at that moment. His arms locked around me, holding me closely to him. I didn't even know who was there, I never even looked. I just ran straight to the h--l hole called my home. 

When I reached home, I ran inside, slamming the door behind me. At that moment, I regreted doing that. My father came out from the kitchen and looked at me with his cold, dark eyes. 

"Well, look who decided to show up," he sneered. "Why do you keep coming right back here?"

Of course it was rhetorical, and I didn't answer. 

Then he started walking towards me. I backed up until my back hit the door. He had an evil grin on his face as he closed the distance between us. Soon, he was almost skin tight. I could feel his breath on my skin, making it crawl in fear and disgust. He, then, brought his hands up and wrapped one around my neck and started to lift me up. I struggled in his grip.

"You are a pathetic piece of sh--. I can't believe that you, bit--, are my daughter," he growled, letting go of his grip around my neck.

I hit the ground in a loud thump and as soon as I impacted the ground, I was met by my father kicking my side. Pain was exploding in my body. I felt, at least I think it was him, kicking me, everywhere and anywhere. When it stopped, I thought it was finally over, but I was wrong. It started again, except, I believe it was his fists he was using this time. 

I knew not to cry or scream, or he'd make it worse, so I stayed quiet, crying silently to myself. Hit after Hit, lash after lash, I waited until my father would leave. I started wishing I was dead instead of living in this h--l. 

He kicked me then growled, "Go to your room and stay there."

I looked up at him, his eyes had now held no emotion in them. His face was firm and cold. I scrambled to get up, before he would kick me again, and ran upstairs to my room. 

When I got to my room, I closed my door and sat against the wall in the corner, hugging my knees to my chest. I had then started to rock back and forth, trying to calm myself down before I did... it.

It soon became to much and I got up, stumbling as I tried to run to my bathroom. When I got into the small room, I locked the door and slowly turned around. Slowly, I walked to the cabinets and opened the bottom drawer. Time seemed to have been slowed as I made these movements, like I've done many times before. Shaking my head, I grabbed the one thing I needed from the drawer. And that was my razor.

I looked at the piece of metal in my grasp. It was odd how something so small and pointless could control my life. 

Putting against my skin, like many times before, I held my breath. Soon, it made a mark into my skin. But it wasn't anything special. It added on to the imperfections that lined my wrists, my sides and my ankles. 

I drew the razor into a story of my pain onto my skin, screaming silently as the pain washed through me. I had made a pretty picture, with a twist. Unlike most, who use paper and pencil, I used a razor for a pencil, blood for my ink and my wrists for paper. It just added to my messed up story.

The blood soon was trinkling out of the dashes in my skin, staining against my ghost-like pale wrist. I watched it slowly stream out of the wounds I had created on my own skin. The way that sounds makes me feel better. These were my fault, my doing, my fault. 

I was never able to control my life. Whether I lived or died, was happy or sad, hungry or satisfied, sleepy or rested, and everything else, was always up to someone on else! My pain and suffering was from someone else, my starving, my lack of sleep, my sadness. Nothing in my life was ever my own doing! Only this was something I could control.