January 5th 2002, we were seventh graders when we meant. Me and Levi. Small kids, still young and full of desire and ambition; our small hearts held the highest expectations for all things good. Mainly, because that's what we had to trick our selves into thinking. The world was impeccable to us, but only when we were together. A boy and girl who were inseparable, like the main characters in every love story you've ever read. Layla and Levi vs. the world. But, this ones different. What drew us near wasn't love, but exactly the opposite.
Both of us sprouted from the same horrendous type of lifestyle, or dare say "home" life. Layla Skye Hollaway, (that's me) daughter of Miranda and Richy Hollaway, lived a life of neglect, abuse, and mistreatment. My parents were stupid, although smart at acting innocent to the public eye. They were masters at excuses and great actresses at pretending to be like average parents, especially when me and my brother, Greg, were young. It was better then, inside and outside our household, yet still not perfect. Mom and Dad were both alcoholics but nowhere close to where they are now.
Inside the walls of our rickety, dilapidated, home the unthinkable took place. Beating after beating so violent at times that we often threw up and were weak for days. Both me and my brothers arms were always bruised up and down, from our wrists to our shoulders. Even more bruises from our knee caps to our upper thigh, from our shins to our small toes. Our little childhood bodies that were supposed to be flourishing and growing into strong and healthy individuals, were mutilated.
For 13 years of my life my arms, legs, back and stomach were stained with bruises darker than the skies of a thousand moonless nights. Along with wounds as red and tender as the meat at a slaughter house. Like I said, they were great at covering things up. To the public eye, me and Greg were just normal children in the small town of Bryersburg, Indianna.
We attended school just like all other children in the area. There was no dress code at Medford School but we could certainly not dress as we wanted to either. Our clothes were planned by mom and dad so they could be sure to cover all bruises, cuts, scrapes, and scars with long sleeved shirts and pants that reached all the way down to the ankle. We were to always wear socks and boots in case anyone were to ever see the occasional beating that affected our feet also. They always made sure to not harm anywhere they could not cover up. I knew they couldn't get away with it forever though.
