Tumbling, tumbling down the stairs. I scream in pain as the back of my head hits against the edge of the step. I can hear my parents' laughter from the top of the staircase. I sit up and rub the back of my head, my little five year old self unsure of what to do. I stand on my wobbly legs, only to have my father run down the stairs and push me down. My head hits against the wall, and I let out a wail of pain as I crumple to the floor. The first beating.
Forever, yet never. I'm at school, trying to remove the pain I still feel from the beating last night. Still that first beating, so I was too clueless to know to tell someone about it. I had a throbbing headache, the notice of the kindergarten classroom not helping at all. I sit quiet, trying to tune out the by placing my mind on other things. Nothing works.
A year passed, a whole year of abuse. With scars on my back and scratches on my arms, I'm wounded and marked forever. I sit at my little first grade desk, my pale purple sweater covering up the scars the cover my arms in an in orderly fashion, a soft scarf covering the marks on my neck from where my father clutched onto my throat for a little too long. The black and blue bruises that cover my body, the only one visible ok the back of my hand, where my mother's wedged shoes hit my skin.
No way can I cover this up. I turn seven tomorrow, not like it'll be special. Just another day of beatings, probably extra. I had a huge gash on my left cheek, from where I was slashed with a shard of glass. The blood still crusted the jagged line, I wasn't sure how to clean it up myself. I sucked it up and headed to school for another day of class.
Still the same day, but now in at school. I step into the small classroom and the teacher's eyes fall right on the gash, a small truckle of blood stained beneath it. She runs over to me frantically, a look of fear and sorry plastered all over her face.
"How did this happen?" She asked with worry.
"Broken glass." I replied.
"How did you cut your cheek so badly?"
I broke down into a sob, everyone looking towards me. "Daddy- h-hurt me!" I choked out.
That was the day I moved to a Foster home. My parents were arrested for child abuse, and I could tell by their faces when I left for the Foster home that they hated me more than before. At least I'm happy now. I can feel excited to come home after school, not have to fear what kind of pain I'll feel today. But what I didn't know, was that telling my teacher was the biggest mistake of my life.
Tomorrow, they're released.
YOU ARE READING
Faulty
HorrorThis is the story of how my Creepypasta OC, Faulty, learned to cope with her dark and hard life. And where she ended up when it was over.
