Unhinged » murder ff

Chapter Thirteen

    '' So that was your dad, huh? '' asked Grayson - we were all currently sitting in the common room. James had invited an obviously gay guy over, Aiden, and I thought he was pretty handsome compared to some guys in the room. I cleared the thought and nodded, my knuckles still bruised badly and throbbing from the fight.

'' Is he dead? '' Cedric asked quickly, and I shrugged.

'' I don't know and I don't care to find out, '' my voice sounded toxic as it came out, and I couldn't help glancing at Aiden from across the room. He was staring at me, his eyes a glowing green. I found myself locked in them for a moment - making snow angels in the grassy green plains of his irises. Quickly looking away, I sighed, my gaze shifting to Matthew. His dark brown eyes were also fixated on me, changing color in the bright light above all of us, from dark midnight brown to a light caramel color. I finally looked at Grayson, who was squished in right beside me on a chair, and smiled a little, catching his eyes. He blushed and nodded, looking back at Cedric. 

'' Why'd you get into a fight with him? '' Matthew asked suddenly, and sighed.

'' He ran into me. The man who'd abu-'' I found myself slipping and bit down hard on my tongue, blood seeping out through the tight stitches where I'd bit down during my seizing in the hospital. I winced and shot out of the seat, blood draining down my throat - I had to swallow. I gulped it down as it slid down more and more, my eyes wide and traumatized.

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    I could taste the blood in my mouth, biting my tongue as a belt to ease the screaming that was emitting from my mouth. A hard force slammed against my behind, my back, anything it could reach. And as it slid across my spine, I heard a loud crack, and my knees buckled. A foot came down. 

I rolled to the side, my four year old baby blue eyes welling with continuing tears. For we never cried in the house - we never buckled under the pain of the abuse that was given day after day. I turned to my brother, who I so desperately wanted to get out of the house. I would have given anything for him. ' Sam! ' I wanted to cry out. To scream it before he so stupidly tried to run in and tackle our drunk Father. I hated him for it. 

And then I loved him even more for risking his small body to save mine that had taken the beatings for so long. It was almost ironic.   

He'd been so sure. His hazely-green and blue eyes had shone with such determination and anger - he'd been crying for me. For his big sister - who was on the floor, her shirt soaked with blood and marks from the abuse she took every day. I was his big sister. And I had buckled.

I tried to stand up - my chubby little legs were wobbly and shaking. I couldn't feel the pain in my back anymore, though I knew it was broken when I crumpled to the floor, a balled up piece of paper; crumbling, cracked. I screamed when I felt it - the bones moving, swishing throughout my back as I moved, and bone fragments swimming through the lines of blood that ran throughout my body, as any other human being. But I was no ordinary human being. 

I was a human being that felt bad for her ruthless, abusive, drunk father. I was a human that thought, hey, maybe I should give him a few more chances. And more. And more. 

But the chances turned to fear. If I didn't give them, I'd get punished. And punishment had a whole new meaning in the four-story house we lived in. Punishment in our house meant blood, and screaming, and pain. Pain. Oh, I knew a thing or two about that word, even as I had just been born.

I'd seen the look of horror on my Mom's face as she witnessed me being born. She knew our father would take advantage of my early birth - and take advantage he did. He told me he was just teaching me to act right as every father did with his little girl.

By age one, I knew it was all a sham. A lie to get me accustomed to the pain - perhaps make it worse now that I knew. 

The only sanctuary I had was my little brother, my Mom, and my puppy that I hid from my father, for he hated dogs. Much, much less than he hated me. Oh, there was nothing he hated more than his fat little daughter with big blue eyes and a desire to kill. 

At age four, she'd arrange torn off spider parts on the balcony edge and leave them there to show her Dad. Her Dad would beat her - he wasn't a religious man. He got a job as a police officer - his promise to protect the state was phony, but only to certain ears of the crowd. He was an evil man, and his daughter knew it too. His daughter being me. 

And as he stepped down with that badge on his chest, I knew it was over. He told me every night, he'd say, '' Now, Julianne, you sweet little devil girl. Ya' cain't go tellin' them police officers that ya' daddy beats ya', now can you, hun'? '' he'd whisper. Oh, the fear it would send down my spine. It raked down in waves - first my healing bones, then my stitches, bruises, cuts and battered spots. 

I'd nod. '' I know, daddy. '' I'd whisper, my voice spoken softly as to not imply hurt or an attitude to make him angry. '' I know. I won't. ''