Lies

Chapter 1

Stop lying to me. I hate you. Stop lying to me. Screw you. Stop lying to me. Get lost. Stop lying to me. What the hell do you want with me?

I replayed the words over and over in my head, making it into a chant.

Stop lying to me. Punch. Stop lying to me. Smack. Stop lying to me. Punch. Stop lying to me. Smack.

My back was sore; bruised and bloodied from my mother's hands, glass bottles, her belt and everything else she got her hands on. My ribs ached from her high heeled shoes and I was pretty sure she sprained my ankle as it was throbbing lightly. Slowly, I stood up and mopped up the blood with my t-shirt. I chucked it in the trash and pulled my favourite black t-shirt over my head. The black jeans I was wearing seemed pretty wrecked but I didn't have enough money to buy a new pair. They were covered in blood and dust and ripped in multiple places. I dunked them in a bucket of hot water and cleaned them. I borrowed my mother's hairdryer and blow-dried them dry. The phone rang downstairs and I heard my mother answer. Shoot, I hoped it wasn't my teacher telling her about my grades slipping from C's to F's. It wasn't that I didn't try hard enough, it was just that I didn't have a clue what the teachers were talking about.

"Thalia!" My mother screeched.

Shoot, it was. I hurried down the stairs and stood as far away as possible from her. She had her running gear on for no apparent reason unless she was about to go for a run, which I highly doubted. She stepped towards me, snarling menacingly. I shied away, terrified of what was about to come. Then she came at me, a belt in hand, snatched up from the desk. I turned and scrambled up the stairs as fast as my legs could take me, which wasn't that fast, as they were still stiff and sore from my last beating. 

My mother came pounding up the stairs after me. She had always been slower than me, but over time she'd caught up slightly. I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door in her face. She pushed against it with all of her strength and it came flying open as I let go of it and ducked under her arm. It was a deadly game of tag. I knew I had to trap her somewhere long enough so I could call the police. The thing was though, my mother was too smart. 

I jumped over my bed and tripped over a fallen box. I tumbled down the stairs into the kitchen. My mother chased after me gaining with every second. I jumped to my feet and hurtled over the bench. I heard a satisfying crunch as my mother hit the cupboards headfirst. She stood up slowly and shook off the dizziness. She came at me and I ran, sprinting to the lounge. The couch was my only shield between me and her, and I was determined to keep it that way. 

Sadly, it didn't last. She caught me by surprise, diving over the couch. I smashed into the wall, my head banging against it hard. I groaned, my vision fuzzy. I could vaguely see my mother grinning wickedly, wielding a knife badly. Then my world went black as I plunged into darkness. I awoke to my own screaming, raw and scratchy, although it took me a while to realise that. My voice was hoarse and my throat was sore. I guessed I had been screaming all night in my sleep. My stomach felt like it had been put through a blender and my back was bleeding badly. 

Gently, I pulled my t-shirt away from my skin, cursing when the blood stuck to it. I looked down and was sick in my mouth. I knew my mother had been starving me, but I hadn't realised she wasn't feeding me at all. My stomach looked like one hundred knives had been plunged and twisted around in it. I traced my scars and began to clean my wounds. The only reason I knew how to do it was because I'd done it a million times before. The hot water stung against the open cuts. I dried myself off and smeared a dressing over it to keep infections away and then covered it with a bandage. 

I tiptoed downstairs praying that my mother wouldn't be awake yet. It was just my luck that she was it sitting at the table eating toast with a cup of coffee. I made myself some toast - it burned - and headed upstairs but I was blocked by my mother. I tried to go around her but she grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards the lounge. A dark haired old man was sitting there with a briefcase with what I could only guess were full of torture instruments.