Broken (Cameron Dallas Andrea Russett)

1//sticks and stones

Closing the door as softly as I could as to not wake my Father who was most probably asleep, I made my way to the kitchen. Thankfully, he wasn't there and I opened the fridge to make myself a snack. Of course, it was literally empty, with just a bottle of two-year old mustard and some mouldy cheese. The money I earned from working at my local Target didn't earn me much, and I had to balance between not looking like a cast off child and putting food in the house. Sighing, I walked towards the cupboards for anything that might be edible but no such luck. Frustrated as hell, I slammed the door and turned to lean on the counter, holding my head.

I almost jumped out of my skin as I saw my Father, staring at me with a look of cold anger on his face. I didn't know how he managed to look so frosty when I knew he was punch drunk, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand and the amber liquid dripping down his chin.

"So," He growled, quite much sounding like sober man. A talent, he called it. A curse, I called it. Somtimes I didn't know if he was sober or drunk if he tried to hide it. "Are you not going to give your old man a kiss hello?

I shivered slightly, a chill going down my spine. Walking over to him would be better than him walking over to me. As I approached, he held his arms out, presumably for a hug. But no; he swung at me, knocking me to the floor with the force of his blow. I lay, eyes closed, clutching my head. I was in pain, and my ears were ringing, the sound of the blood rushing in my ears the only thing I could hear.

"Fucking useless brat," He grunted, sounding really freaking drunk now, his control gone. "Slamming my cupboards."

He kicked me right in stomach and I doubled over, seeing him stagger out the room before I closed my eyes.

~☆~

A few hours later, I was in my room, looking at my bruises in the mirror. I hated my room; it reminded of the times my Mom was here. The good times. The purple walls; the white veil that covered my bed; the demure white comforter. Reminded me that I wasn't good enough for this room or my Father. He had been the one that suggested my Mom and him should fix up my room 'nice and pretty' as he called it.

A blueish-purple bruises had begun to form lightly on my stomach and face, and I ran my hand over them. They would be stark and in the open tommorow, and I knew I'd have to use a lot of cover up and definitely not wear a crop top.

Suddenly I began to laugh. It shouldn't have been funny, but sometimes you just had to laugh: the bruise was shaped like his foot.

~☆~

I lay in my bed, eyes shut tightly to try and will myself to sleep, and the door cracked open. My heart started hammering, and as expected, the smell of alchohol wafted through the room. I knew what was going to happen next.

He hovered over me, his breath hot and vile on my face as I prayed silently for him to leave in drunken haze. But no, he wrenched the covers off off me, and lay sloppily next to me, supporting his weight on his arm. He begun kissing my neck, hot wet kisses up and down as he clambered on top of me.

Suddenly he slapped me, and my eyes flew open. He grinned wolfishly, gripping my hair with his bear like paw, pulling excrutingly. Tears formed in my eyes as he spat in my face, "Bitch, you can't fool me. I knew you were awake."

As he unzipped his trousers with one hand, her jerked her head up with the other, looking straight into her eyes. "Now," He grinned, undoing the button of his jeans. "You, are going to do everything your Daddy tells you to do, and what does Daddy want you to do?"

"I don't know." I whispered raspily. I knew fighting would only make him more ruthless, more angry.

"Well, how abut I show you, hmmm?"

The last thing I felt was the sudden pain of it, before I closed my eyes and shut.

love ya,

k.