The Pain, Redux(Ivy x Abused Male Reader Rewrite)

6: Turning Point

  You almost choked, your heart going a mile a minute from the surprise. Heavily breathing as a borderline furious Ivy held you by the neck against the wall. You swallowed as you looked at Ivy's face, where a bruise was formed on her cheek. You were interrupted from your thoughts by Ivy slamming you against the wall against.

  "Did I stutter? Explain!" There it was again. That damned question. If you wanted to survive today, you needed a cover story. Or, alternatively, you could try to make a point. Or rather, you were going to escape. The door was right to your right.

  You held your hands to your throat, trying to pry Ivy off, mostly for show. As expected, Ivy's grip tightened, and she pressed you on the wall harder. You frowned as your headache grew larger, and your concussion probably worse. But most notably, you only got mad. Some unbridled rage built up in your gut as your tried to get Ivy's hands off your neck.

  "Explain why you're-" You looked up at Ivy, glaring, and she silenced herself. You weren't sure what she saw in you, but you knew what you saw in her. You resisted the urge to sneer, instead pressing your back to the wall, and lifting both feet, kicking her in the gut again. As she staggered back, you socked her in the side of the head, again, and watched her hit the ground like a sack of bricks. She weakly looked at you as you opened the door, before turning around to face her. Your glare lightened, and you felt some rage melt away. You swallowed nervously as you looked at the barely-conscious Ivy. You sighed and walked back to her, squatting.

  You lifted her up, putting her arms around your shoulder. As you stood, Ivy only groaned. When you started moving, she resisted. You only continued walking. When you reached the Life Skills room, you set Ivy on a chair, and walked to the freezer. As expected, there was an ice tray. You grabbed it, and a sandwich bag.

After filling the bag with ice, you walked to Ivy, who was weakly getting a bearing of her surroundings.

"I got you that hard?" You asked, setting the ice pack on the desk in front of her. Ivy groaned in response. You sighed, stealing a piece of paper from the teacher's desk, and a pen. Laying the paper on a desk, you got to writing.

You want me to explain, here you go.

It's you. It's all you, except for the occasional accident. Happy?

You never learn

Y/n

You placed the paper by Ivy, before resting her head on the ice pack, and walking out of the room. You felt bad for lying, but it was either that, or your secret gets out. And you've learned that if you EVER let that happen, you won't survive.

  After a short walk, you were at the main entrance to the school, as opposed to the one used by students during the school day. You sighed as you opened the door and walked out, breathing in the fresh air as you walked out of the school, feeling your headache slightly lessen.

  It hadn't been much of an obstacle, but you wanted to treat your headache with as much caution as possible, which was impossible with your parents and Ivy. Oh Irene, you hoped you didn't give her one as well.

  You sighed, and felt something unwind, as that rage that made you knock out Ivy seemingly evaporated, and you almost felt a tear. She may be your bully, but you didn't want to HURT her, and look what you did. You swallowed as you approached your house.

Eight years. It had been eight years since your parents got noticeably violent towards you, which spiraled into the madness you were now in. Eight years that you had attempted any escape from hell, only to learn that it would return tenfold when you failed. You reached for the doorknob with a shaky hand, but you grabbed your wrist to try and stop it.

Eight years, and you were NOW slipping up. You swallowed again and opened the door, walking inside. None of your parents were in the living room. Further inspection revealed their absence from the bottom floor. You were about to look upstairs, but before you could climb the first step, you were stopped by the sound of stomping coming down the stairs. Your father. And he was mad.

"Irene blessed.... dammit...." your father grumbled to himself, before his eyes locked onto you.

"You." He started approaching you, and you could only back up in fear.

"You're pathetic ass is the reason we're running out of money, and you have the nerve to be LATE COMING HOME!?" He started shouting, his face growing red. You eventually hit the wall, unable to back up any more. You started to hyperventilate as your father stopped, before reaching behind the tv stand and ripping something out.

"Junk was worthless anyway..." he grumbled as he wrapped up an electrical cord into a size that comfortably fit his hand. He continued storming towards you as you shrink down onto the floor, covering your head, as the onslaught began.

Blow after blow struck your hands, arms, neck, sides, anywhere you exposed. Pain came in waves as your father's blows grew more intense. It only stopped when the front door opened, and your mother walked inside.

"F/n, what's all the fuss?" Your mother asked him, before she saw you, and her smile became an ugly sneer.

"Oh." She scoffed and walked over, reaching into her purse. She pulled out what seemed to be an extendable back scratcher. When did she get that?

"I'll continue this for you. You go find that job you need." She spoke sweetly to him. Your father sighed and threw the cords he had coiled onto the couch, and walking upstairs. When he left sight, your mother looked at you, anger evident. She extended her back scratcher.

"You dare be so EXPENSIVE!?" She almost screeched, bringing her weapon onto your head. You whimpered from the impact as she lifted her arm and struck you again. Again. Again. And again. Then a few seconds passed. You almost looked up, but fear restricted you.

"Get dinner made. I expect the house to be spotless before you go to bed." You nodded, crawling on the floor to try and get past your mother. She struck you on the rear as you passed, before she withdrew her scratcher, putting it in her purse, and walking upstairs. As soon as she left your sight, tears started falling as you got to the kitchen.

  The despair you felt from that was beyond even your belief, as you started to cook. Boil this, simmer that, add this, stir that, and your parents had frittatas waiting for them on the table. You started cleaning as they ate, wiping down counters, washing dishes, and taking your parent's plates when they finished, shoving their scraps in your mouth when they weren't looking.

  As you finished cleaning the kitchen, your parents left to go to their room, leaving you to clean the living room. You only did what you knew.

  You worked.

  ~ASnazzyGuy

~1217 Words