Afraid - H.S - Under Heavy Editing

Afraid

Alyssa POV

"Alyssa? Could you come in here for a minute?" My mother called in her "sweet voice".  A tone so perfect and smooth, it could almost pass as siren's song.

She sang again for me to come to her. If she asked a third time I knew there would be hell to pay. I stood up slowly from my desk and let out a shaky breath.

I trembled slightly as I walked into the living room, attempting to control my breathing and seem perfectly fine when I entered my mother's line of sight. The floor of our ratty, old house creaked beneath my feet. It wasn't that we couldn't afford better; my mother just had other priorities.

I came to a stop in front of my mother, who slouched lazily on the broken couch. I swallowed hard, watching her smile turn to a smirk.

A bottle of whiskey was dangling in my mother's drunken grasp as she smiled falsely at me. "Y-Yes?" I stuttered out weakly, coughing as if it would hide the fear my voice involuntarily showed.

My mother tipped her head back and I watched her Adam's apple bob up and down as she took multiple large gulps of the brown liquid. She stood up, stumbling towards me.

She came to a stop about a foot from me, looking unsteady, she waited for me to properly address her. "Yes?" I avoided her eye contact.

Her smirk morphed into a scowl. "Yes what?" She snapped taking a step closer. I flinched back. I could smell the mix of whiskey and cigarettes on her breath, and god only knows what else she's been mixing today.

I focused more on my speech as I responded. "Sorry, yes ma'am?" I said still not meeting her gaze.

"I got a call from the school today," she started and my heart sank. "It seems you've been slacking off in class." She said. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.

"Care to explain." She said taking another swig. My eyes shot up so fast, I was astonished those three little words.

"I haven't been slacking off, my teacher is late putting in grades, he said my grade should be back up to an "A" by-"

The hand that held the bottle shot up and swung at my head. I fell onto my knees, my skull burning where whiskey seeped into the open wound. I tried my best not to cry or make a sound, knowing it could and most likely would, get worse.

My mother yanked me up by a handful of my blonde hair and brought her lips up to my ear, bellowing obscenities: that, I was a dumbass, College was going to take me off of her hands, I was a low-life cunt, I had no right to live, I was a huge mistake, and much, much more.

I didn't allow myself to cry. If I cried she would get more angry and hit me harder. "I'll give you something to cry about" she would say.

My mother let go of my hair, which was covered in dried blood at the roots, and pushed me to the old wooden floor. It screeched as I fell onto it.

I didn't move at all as I watched my mother walk to her bedroom and come back wearing a short, too tight dress and pumps. Mom isn't underweight, but she certainly is skinny. I suppose she doesn't have time for eating. She's far too busy, drinking, smoking, and fucking Dave.

I sat silently on the floor and watched her leave wordlessly, slamming the door shut behind her. I knew she would be going to the bar or to Dave's, and I hardly cared which it was.

I supported my weight on the palms of my hands, took a deep breath, and pushed myself off the floorboards, stumbling hazily to the bathroom to clean up the wound on my forehead.

I dabbed rubbing alcohol on it, staring at myself in the mirror. My skin seared with pain, but not a single tear fell from my eyes. I'd shut off my emotions when my dad died. There was no point, really. Whatever was going to happen would happen, tears or not. As I grew older, holding in my tears became easier.

I'd cried often when my dad was still alive; then again I was still a child, but he loved that, saying I had a tender heart. After the car accident, I never allowed emotion to show on my face.

All of my friends quit talking to me around then, and nobody's truly cared about me since. Nobody talks to me, but nobody goes out of their way to mock me either. They all know I don't care.

When the wound on my head was clean, I stripped off my slightly bloodied clothing and turned on the shower. I tossed my shirt into the trash. The stain - a pungent mixture of blood and whiskey - definitely wouldn't be coming out of that.

I hopped into the shower and washed dried blood of of my shoulder and arm. The water pelted my open wound quickly, like little bullets; it stung. It still bled but it slowly stopped. Nonetheless, I stood in the shower until crimson stopped running from the top of my head and into the drain.

When I got out, I put pajamas on, and I set my alarm clock for school the next day. I placed a towel on my pillow in case my head bled again in the night, then walked slowly back into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I wiped off the red stained counters as well, and as I was about to leave, I looked up at the mirror, into my lifeless brown eyes.

My dirty blonde hair fell in waves just past my shoulders. I tied it up.

I was fairly tall at 5'8", my head only a few inches from being cut off by the bathroom mirror. I was glad I wasn't super skinny like my mother. My eating habits weren't the best due to our financial situation, so it was always nice to see that I still had weight to lose before I needed to start worrying.

I wasn't large either. I was in good shape, my thighs touching but toned from almost daily runs, my stomach flat, my breasts a little too large for me to have what one would call an hourglass figure. I was right in between an hourglass and athletic.

I finished looking in the mirror and pointing out most of my flaws, - I would say all, but there were always more. Then, I moved back into my bedroom and snuggled up to my teddy bear. I've had it since I was young, and I could never seem to get rid of it.

Finally, I drifted out of consciousness, relieved to be away from the real world for a couple over hours.
But the funny thing about sleep is that hours turn to minutes, and before you know it, you're awake.

But dreams don't end when you open your eyes in the morning. They just turn to nightmares...

~*~

(Wow so I'm trying to change a lot and good gracious I need to. I'm trying to change things for the better  and make this book more enjoyable! But anyway y'all bare with me!)