Her Freedom Gone, Herself Lost

1. -Her Freedom Gone, Herself Lost-

'I plastered on a smile and went on from there.'

TW- Profanity, mention of self harm

-All in Elle's P.O.V.-

I walk through the halls with a smile on my face. People have told me that I can 'brighten up a room' with that smile. Though it doesn't brighten up mine, a deep dark lonely abyss.

I spend most of my days and Friday nights curled up in my bed and trying my best to tune out mother and father's screams. I sigh, putting in my headphones and loading up Spotify.

I turn the volume up to 95 just to try and focus on the music and not the piercing yells from them.

While it tears me up inside to hear their hateful words toward one another, I become used to it as months go on and years go by.

My mind starts racing.
'What if I become like them?
What if I make the same mistakes that they did?'

And honestly, what the hell did I do to deserve this?

I'm  Why should I be terrified of my own mother and father?

The arguing all started three years ago when I found out that mother had an alcohol problem and that father had had an affair.

Might I add that that is also the year that I came out as bisexual.

To add, this wasn't just any affair. . .

It happened to be an affair with a girl reasonably younger than him, who happens to live next door.

The girl was nineteen. He was forty seven. So sure, they were both of legal age. But one, she was still young. Very young.

After father had confessed to mother about the affair, mother ended up trying to stab herself with a butcher knife, but missed only because of the swing of my hand.

If I wasn't there, would she have actually done it?

Ever since she has been afraid that father would leave her for good.

And sorry to mom, but that time looks to be about now.

I step out of my bedroom, and I peek into the kitchen. Father grabs a plate, and attempts to throw it at my mother.

I flinch.

I look at mom, and she's currently in the midst of letting out a storm.

The plate shatters to the ground, and her teardrops fall upon it. He then grabs her neck, pulling her into what looks like a chokehold.

All of a sudden I feel my eyes stinging with tears.

Wait, am I actually crying? Damn. I haven't done that in 10 months. Haven't had the emotional strength to.

The tears had all ran out when I got put into a mental hospital when I was fifteen, just months ago.

Father pulls out a shotgun from his back pocket, and pipes it up.

He points it at mom and tells her, 'if you don't give me the damn money I'm leaving and never coming back, I don't fucking care.'

Oh, so they're fighting about rent money. Again. If only I could get a fucking job, these problems could be fixed. Our money could be saved.

I applied for a job the month prior, but no.

My mind and body were too damn scarred with cuts and bruises to work with social workers and do the simplest thing of helping them with foster children.

I'm fucked up. I'll admit it.

And sometimes, I feel like I'm the problem. Not the alcohol. Not the girl next door. But me.

The freak with mental illnesses here and there, that they have to watch almost every minute to make sure I don't try to fucking self- harm with any sharp object, or hang myself with any loose strings thereabout.

Mother's still in tears.

A minute later I find myself running into the kitchen. 'Dad! What the hell, are you doing? Put it down! PLEASE.' I start crying even more.

All of a sudden, I hear the busting open of a door and loud footsteps nearing the kitchen. . .