"Please...not again. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to...I'll work hard-" She was cut off by another strike of the belt. The 24th. Welts covered my body, my face a bloody mess from being slammed against the wall. I was only 5 years old.
I jolt awake, tears streaming down my face, a internal scream echos in my ears, a war flashback. I can't even sleep anymore without getting multiple flashbacks. And a new one appears every night. Momma never forgets to give me another one. Each night they worsen, combining, and creating a monstrosity only a childs mind could create.
I slowly slide out of bed. Every cut and bruise burning worst than the last time. Man, shes gotten newer ideas. Burning, whipping, freezing digits, slicing my skin, breaking bones, not feeding me for days, then forcing food down my throat and watch me puke it up.
Every night was different.
Every night I prayed God would take my life.
And every night he refused to allow me to leave at 15 years old.
And even when I tried to take my own life, he shoved my soul back into my beaten body, and my mother would beat me more for trying.
Sometimes, you just. Cant. Win.
I scream, louder than I ever have, and hoped my neighbor must have heard. But she cannot. But my mother did. And at 3:46 A.M. I was beaten again. New wounds. 17 to be precise. Each one bleeding more than the last.
She had used the spiked whip.
"AND TOMORROW ITS GONNA BE WORSE YOU LITTLE CUNT!" My mother spewed into my face. The poison seeping deeper and deeper into my soul. Tomorrow I may die.
As I lay in bed, bleeding onto my bare mattress in my 25° room, I beg God to take my life.
And you know what?
He didn't.
YOU ARE READING
Survive
Teen FictionAn abandoned child. A lonely soul. Blind, abused, and abandoned. But there's one light. Painting. Is there still hope for me?
