Bullseye

Chapter 2

After a couple of minutes, I get up. I have to hurry, because I have witnessed firsthand how impatient my unfather is. Like unfather, like daughter I guess, for Nicky was as patient as a kid on Christmas Eve.

I'm only feeling a little pressure here and there, and it goes away within seconds. I mentally prepare myself, thinking that I won't feel a thing, I mean how many times have gone through this. But I know I'm lying to myself, because I never get use to it, each time is like the first.

I cross the hall, go down stairs, and enter my parents room. My undad is sitting on his bed, a whip in his hand. "Hello," he says, calmly greeting me.

I stare at him, in fear, knowing of the torture that is to come, but I'm unable to do anything. And he's calm. Angry is predictable and can be controlled, but calm, calm is even more terrifying and dangerous. Clam's motives are always hidden, which is a disadvantage. After a few seconds, I compose myself, and raise my hand, slightly waving at him, but I flinched anyways.

Undad noticed, and his lips curved in to a smirk full of pleasure. He loved to feed of of my vulnerability.

"I got a new toy today," he says, gesturing at the whip in his hands. He slowly gets up and moves to the door, passing right besides me. My heart beats a mile a minute when he does. I hear the click of a lock, wishing I could cry, but I learned early that crying or speaking at all only makes it worst. "I want to see if it works, and you're always such a good test subject. Turn around."

I do as he says, like always, and I'm useless. I feel... weak... powerless. He brings it down on my shoulder. I hardly feel anything, just a slight sting, because my hoodie absorbs most of the power. Dad notices this too and yanks my hoodie and shirt off. He continues to strike at me. I don't even whimper.

I hardly feel it physically, instead, I suffer mentally, emotionally. The pain is in my head knowing I am uncared for by my own father, knowing I'm so unwanted, I am treated like an object. Knowing that the people who are suppose to love me most treats me like a nothing. No, that's not right, he treats me like the nothing I am. Why else would he do such things.

Stop. I have to stop... feeling. I can't give him or anyone the satisfaction of my tears. Only the weak show there emotions, and if I ever want to be strong, I can't-I won't- let my feeling show.

Soon, I have cuts and reopened wounds all over my chest, arms, back, and stomach, but that's not the end of it. He pushes me on the bed, getting on top of me, and...well, I guess you will have to imagine what happens next.

~~~

I leave his bloody room as soon as he lets me go. He took the stupid pictures of me like always, his bloody finger prints joining ranks with the old crusty ones from before. When he dismisses me, I get dressed as fast as humanly possible, maybe even faster. I go to the bathroom to get cleaned up and tend to my wounds.

Once inside the bathroom, I remove my clothing, and take out one first aid kit of many. Taking out the cotton balls and alcohol, I clean thy wounds littering my whole body. The whip striking my down over and over cut my skin till it was raw, so it felt like I was being burnt alive each time a drop sizzled on my skin. But this is nothing compared to what I just went through.

I continue to rub the cotton balls over my new to-be-scars, bruises, old wounds that were reopened, and scars that were surprisingly given chance to heal. This is the reason I always wear jackets and long pants. I couldn't let anyone see what was going on. It's not like they would believe me anyway.

After I put of the bandages, I walk to my brothers room. I need some happiness right now, and he is my sunshine when all is dark in the world, which is all the time.

I find him playing with his action figures. Batman just captured the Joker when I enter. Thomas stops what he is doing and gives me a bear hug me. He always knows when I need it. I look at him with concerning eyes.

"No. Sissy and dada haven't touched me. Are you okay?" Thomas knows how to pronounce things as well as an eight year old, only messing up on a few syllables. I taught him after all. He also knows how to read and write quite well.

Relief floods my face when he answered. As concerned as I am about myself, I'm 110 times more concerned about Thomas, even though that isn't mathematically possible. He is the only reason I haven't left yet.

Before he was born I was planning to leave, even if logic told me not to, I had become to much. I would have been safer elsewhere than with my family. But when he was born, I knew that if I left Nicky and Dad would just abuse him instead. I couldn't do that to him, no one deserved what I was going through but me. So in the end I stayed, and became his protector.

I wave away his question and motion towards his toys, as if asking to play with him. His question disappears, as if it was never asked, and Thomas happily pulls me away to play with Captain American and Iron Man.

I look at the clock in the room and see it's still two hours until I have to meet Nicky. I have to time, so I play with him, making gestures to explain what Iron Man is saying. Next time I look at the time, it is fifteen minutes to eight. Oh how time flies when your not being tortured.

I take Thomas a quick shower, and tuck him into bed. I read him his favorite book, 'Green Eggs and Ham', and kiss him good night on the forehead. I stay with Thomas until he falls asleep at 7:58. I go to my room, the powerless feeling from before returning.