The Weeping Willow

3

A voice drifted up the stairs and in through Willow's open door. "Sweetie? Mind helping me unpack for a bit?"

"I'll be right down," her soft voice traveled down to her mother.

"Thank you."

And floorboards creaked away, leading to the kitchen.

Dust particles flitted around lazily in front of the window, like dancing fairies. It was calming, peaceful. For a moment, she wished she could become one of the particles and just leave all the stress behind. Leave the memories behind.

Her eyes darted to the scars in her sides. The scars that filthy fingernails had caused, hidden beneath her shirt. Her stomach churned with revulsion.

He was a disgusting man, her father. He had beaten her mother countless times for petty things, such as not filling up the fridge with enough booze for his liking. He had stolen Willow's innocence at the age of twelve, had pushed her harshly into a wall for back-talking him, and more. She told no one, though. She did not want to be a burden on her mother, who was being cruelly abused as well, probably much worse than Willow.

But her mother had started noticing the bruises and scratches blemishing her arms and legs. Willow could not lie to her mother; it was her one weakness. When her mother finally knew that the ruddy bastard was not only hurting her, but her precious child, she'd had enough. The only reason why she had stayed with him was because she had been scared of him, but her fear vanished in knowing that her only daughter was being brutally hurt.

Now the bruises were gone, and the scratches were healed. Only things left were the claw-like scars traveling down her sides where he had dug his fingernails into her flesh. It was the most horrible memory she had. It was when she was twelve, and her mother had gone out to buy more alcohol for him, as he had complained he didn't have enough.

He had snuck into her bedroom, rolled duct tape over her mouth, and tied her to the bed.

A tear rolled down the present Willow's cheek, and she hastily slapped it away. She tried so hard to forget what had happened on that terrible night.

Instead, she focused on what had happened last night in the living room. Maybe there was something paranormal in the house? It would be exciting to have a ghost as a friend. It would make her happy to have a friend at all, but it was more possible to have an old spirit wandering around the house than find someone who liked her.

Stifling a great sigh, she rolled reluctantly out of bed and changed into a band shirt and skinny jeans. She never left her bedroom without makeup anymore, for her self-esteem was very low. After making her eyeliner thick and her blemishes disappear, she pulled her long black hair into a loose ponytail, not even bothering with it.

Though her eye color did not resemble her mother's, her hair certainly did. It was jet-black, iron-straight, and thick. Often a pain to get it to do what she wanted it to, though.

Checking herself one last time in the mirror, she walked out of her bedroom with her head lowered, hoping to get the day over with quickly.