Shout out to...drumroll please...a friend of mine. :) Even though he doesn't have a Wattpad account. Sorry for the long-ish chapter you guys. Well just comment if they get too lengthy. Thanks for reading!
Luna (P.O.V.)
My aunt is very--"LUNA! GET DOWN HERE!"--demanding.
I hurry downstairs still holding an old photograph of my sister and me laughing. I hold the memory behind my back, tightly, as if I could hold onto her forever. I wish I could live in that picture, frozen, but, happy. But, I'm sure there's no such thing as happy. Just your brain telling you to smile for the sake of others.
As soon as I get downstairs, my aunt is speaking with two other adults. A middle-aged man and woman. They're wearing fancy clothes, as if they were about to go to a gala. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but they look like they're about to sell a house to an elderly couple.
Which turns out, by listening to their conversation, to be a very lucky guess. "I'll bring the papers tomorrow," said the fancy man.
It took the old trio a while to notice me standing there awkwardly, bracing myself for the oncoming orders from my vicious aunt. It's the fancy lady that notices me lurking in the shadows first. She stares, and has a vacant expression on her face. Staring. Always staring. Thinking about how ugly I am. How pathetic I look in my black Star Wars shirt. What is it with my face? "Luna!" my aunt snapped, turned to me, and motioned me over. "Get some food!"
I just stare at her, wanting to make her more mad and lose her temper. And when she loses her temper...it's not good. But at least the middle-aged couple or fancy people would say something to the police.
"Now!" she practically growls. Then my aunt gazes at me with such ferocity that I start to edge into the kitchen, seeing our guests' shocked faces.
I let them see my fear. My fear of my aunt's never-ending torrent of anger. Feeling a bit courageous, I lock eyes with my aunt, and say with a little bit of a mixed tone, "Fine, okay."
While my aunt is still glaring at me, I wonder if this person is really my mom's sister. "I'm gonna get u later, missy," she says a little too loudly, through gritted teeth. The real estate agents glance worried looks at me. Again, I show them my fear.
The door closes. The people leave. I am alone with a woman that doesn't care about my well-being and future. I thought she was nice. I thought she was caring. I had a tiny speckle of hope in my soul.
No.
Hope isn't real anymore.
"There's always hope in fairy tales," my sister once said when we were younger as she was reading me a bedtime story. For a time, we called ourselves princesses and no we did not buy poofy pink dresses, tiaras, fake wigs, or "magical" wands, and all that crap. We used our imagination since we were already saving for our college funds (or at least trying to).
Yes, that's true, fairy tales have hopes, dreams, treasures, and true love. But this isn't a fairy tale.
This time there's no happily ever after.
***
Wanna die, wanna die, wanna die. I go up the stairs, only to continue--crying and trying--to pack my sister's things and mine.
My arms and legs ache. My shoulders are burdened with agony. I'm not even going to describe the gashes on my back.
I look at my hands as I sit on my bed. Red. Purple. Blue. Disgusted with myself, I look away, trying to find stray bandages in my room.
Nope. Just a few used tissues. I feel a nosebleed coming on. Aw shoot, it got on the carpet. I reach out blindly, and bump my hand next to a tissue box.
Great I just hurt my hand even more.
Taking deep breaths to get my life together, I slide my back against the door. While breathing, the deep, foul, scent of pot enters my lungs. I cough immediately, then grab a random towel (yes there are random towels in my room but no bandages) and stuff it next to the crack under the door.
I sit there for a couple of minutes until that I realize it's almost midnight.
She started at nine, since she takes an hour to get herself up in the clouds.
She started smoking the pot a half an hour later the real estate people left.
Three hours.
Three hours of beating, bruising, and abusing.
