Losing Hope.

chapter 2

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authors note#

~this chapter is dedicated to DianaChase + Lara_Maisy, who helped a lot with the last chapter, and made me realise i want to carry this book on, so thanks you two!~

~enjoy<3

esthermaexxxxx

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~CHAPTER 2~

Before I had even glanced up, a large powerful hand had struck my cheek, causing me to flinch and cower away as far as I could. The shock was no longer there anymore. I had slowly become used to his recurring torture the whole time I was here.

I squeezed my eyes shut, partly because I still hoped it wasn’t real, but also because I didn’t want to have to look at this monster in front of me. I became aware that his face was right by mine, as the smell of his breath made my nostrils flare in repulsion. Rough lips vaguely brushed my stinging cheek, and tears built up in my eyes. Disgusted. I felt so dirty. Like a slut. And the fact that he did this to me made me want to lash out, to tear his perverse eyes out of his skull, to claw at his skin so he knew what pain was, and to just leave him to die.

Slowly and painfully like he deserved.

My whole body started shaking; I didn’t want him anywhere near me. His gruff, unwelcoming voice graced my ears,

‘You’re a pretty one aren’t you? I could really use you.’ Alarming thoughts rang through my mind, my heartbeat quickened to a deafening pace, whilst trying not to think of what he meant by that.  He was stroking my cheek firmly, enhancing the pain as it was already sore. and I had to turn my head away from him. I just couldn’t take it.

I just couldn't take him.

I soon realised that this was a huge mistake, as another hand lashed out aggressively at my cheek and I could feel my blood slowly filtering down it and creating a small pool on the floor. He must have seen this, as he bent down beside me, and leaned in to get a closer look.

‘You filthy whore!’ he yelled in my face, spitting down at the ground next to me. ‘You’d better clean this up before I come back,’ he added, throwing an oily rag at my feet, ‘or else!’ With that, he stormed out of the room in a rage, still muttering insults under his breath. I waited until silence returned and my whimpering faded, and just sat there, motionless, concentrating on my heavy breathing.

This room had me feeling more claustrophobic each second; the walls were patronisingly plain – apart from recent blood spatter which defaced the wall next to me – yet something about the bareness made it seem frightening. The window, set high up in the left wall, meant that the room was mostly obscured in darkness, and this gave me a sense of loneliness. Apart from a worn out, tattered armchair positioned in the left corner, the only other features in the room, were a large basin-like bowl, which served as a toilet, a chipped vase full of dead forget-me-nots, and a thick sheet sprawled on the floor, acting as a mattress.

I sat there for a few more minutes, willing the pain searing through my bones to die down. When I was satisfied that it had slightly, I whipped the cloth into my hand, and – shaking – started wiping the puddle of blood off the floor and off my face. I threw the rag across the room when I had finished, and rested my head back against the wall. ‘Why me?’ was all I kept thinking, letting it circle again and again around my mind.