Beauty from Pain

Chapter 1: flashbacks
Alexandra's pov:
The small, square room lay in deep silence as his menacing glare bore into me. His deep green eyes were in slits, as if he was planning my demise. He's done this before, hurt me.

Still, after all this time I always feel that pit deep in my stomach when he glares at me like that. When he's in these moods, usually my blood is spilled.

My mom just sits there and watches. To be more specific, she's my step-mom. My dad blames me for my birth mothers death. She died giving birth to me. Now that he's remarried, that usual light in his eyes I have seen in pictures, the ones of happiness, are all gone, all because of me.

I try to steady my breathing and irregular heartbeat as he inches closer. I hear a loud snap and my bare part of my leg that isn't covered in my shorts, stings. A red line where his leather met my skin shown in the dim lights of the room and I can't help but let out a small whimper. Guilt flashes in his eyes for a mere second before his eyes glaze over in sadness.

"You killed her you brat!" He screams in my face as he spits. I fight the urge not to wipe my face.

I just nod simply, not wanting him to burn angry with rage, but unfortunately the five empty beer bottles on the ground proves he is not sober at the moment.

A soft and subtle sigh escapes my chapped lips, but fortunately does not alert my father as he runs his temples in frustration.

I feel bad for my step-mother in a way. Her husband spends his time hurting his daughter all for his dead wife, which I bet she wished to be like so much for the state my father was in. I just want out. But if I write down my situation, I'll hurt my father. After all the pain he has caused me, I still love him.

Everyone wants me to speak, but I feel as if I have lost my voice after all of this time.

He points in the direction of my room as I nod slightly and limp there. My leg swells a bit and I wince silently.

Deciding a shower is my best option, I strip and take a cold shower. Father would kill me if I used any of his hot water.

After that I got into some striped pajama shorts that were gray and a violet tank top. Looking in the small, cracked mirror, I examine what I have come to look like in my 15 years of living. I sigh and wince as I run a hand over a small, deep blue bruise right near my chin. Nothing new I suppose.

My black hair cascades down my thin back until it gets to my hips. I have high, noticeable cheek bones and a pale complexion. I have fierce green eyes, similar to my fathers. But they have a light to them, kinda like my mothers when I saw her in pictures. My body is bony and frail, obviously from malnourishment. I have starved myself before, I admit, but even with the lack of want, I can't have all the food I need even if I wanted it.

I huff out warm air as I slightly fog up the mirror. Wiping the dust off the mirror, I carefully set the fragile piece of mirror on my nightstand and stifle a silent yawn. I am so exhausted. My body is numb, pretty much used to any pain in my way. I hope that one day, this will all end.

On the brink of death, my mother wrote a note to me. This angered my dad, since I was the one to receive her last words.

It read:
Darling sweet Alexandra,
I am so sorry for all that has happened. I wanted to see your beautiful face you have, I wanted to hug you and have you call me mommy. But sadly, life had a different say in it. I'm dying, and you are deserving of my final words. I love you so much and don't let anyone break you down. Remember there is always beauty from your pain, so don't forget that when life gets harsh. I pray the best for you and your father. Tell him to move on and get someone better than me. Tell him I love him dearly. I love you my sweet and my husband, your dad.

With all my heart and soul, Mommy.

Just thinking about that note causes bitter sweet tears to roll down my pale cheeks. Crying shows weakness, but letting it out feels good as well. When I received the letter, dad never gave it to me out of anger. Fortunately I found it, but once he found out, that was when he first abused me. I want to give it to him, to read the message given to him. But, he hates me and gives me a look of disgust when I brought up the subject. I decided mute was my best option. Dad would hit less when I didn't scream or cry or protest as bad. He always had a small glimmer of guilt in those sad lonely eyes, but without mother, his judgement on how to treat pain was not good. It resulted in my harassment.

Thoughts swarm through my head as I lazily turn in my sleepiness and fall into light, but comfortable slumber.