Living with the Devil

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I sat in the corner of my childhood home. Bruised. Bleeding. Cold and alone, waiting for my father to come back, angrier than before. I ran my shaky fingers through my messy pink hair. I couldn't feel anything, except for the blood dripping down my nose and the numb, emptiness I felt that was buried deep inside of me and had only resurfaced just now. I pressed my back closer into the corner as if I could sink into it and disappear. If I could I would never come back out. I let out a shaky breath as I clutched the hem of my sweater to keep myself from trembling.

If only I wasn't a disappointment. If only I didn't have these stupid abilities. If only mum didn't die. My father had never been the same, but neither had I. My father could barely look at me. We were both trying to get by but he always seemed to crash into me, everything I did was wrong. He would come home drunk as a sailor with his mates swaying in behind him. I was still awake since I can't sleep. Sleep takes me to a dreamland where everything is okay, but it's all a lie and I wake up in the morning to find everything is still shit. When my mother died it felt like my world had come crashing down, but it seemed like I wasn't the only one who's world collapsed. My father took it pretty hard. At first, he shut himself in his room and I never disturbed him. Then after a while, he came out more often and got annoyed at me easily. Then everything changed, the father I had once known and loved died, in a few seconds. He slapped me across the face. Once he saw I was afraid, he became more abusive over time, just so he could see the fear in my eyes. Feel that power over me. 

I brought my mind back to the present moment and closed my eyes. Grasping onto the last moments of freedom I had left before my father returned with his threatening words and hard hands which he only used to inflict pain upon me. I was truly living with the Devil himself.

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