since eighth grade. → markiplier

Chapter Eleven: Safe

Chapter Eleven: Safe

If you’re wondering why I keep saying ‘police’ instead of ‘cops’, it’s because I’m a British girl and I’m sticking to my ways.

Ellie

He’s panicking about something. I don’t know what it is that’s making him so panicky, but I really damn hope it’s because the police are on his ass. This sorry excuse for a man doesn’t deserve to live. He’s cancer on legs; he’s a disease that needs to be wiped off of the face of the planet. He tears lives apart and goes on his merry way, almost as if nothing happened.

I can’t even thank him for the thirty second bathroom trips he allows me. One time, when he’d been at his lowest, he’d let me shower. Now that was a complete luxury, at least in comparison to the way he’s treated me otherwise.

I still remember the rough touch of his hands on my skin.

My eyes automatically squeeze shut at the memory. I clutch my knees again, finding that, when I dig my nails down hard into my flesh, it brings me back to reality. I had nothing else to rely on but pain.

A loud shrieking noise catches my attention and causes me to tense up, to prick my ears. I get onto my hands and knees, finding that walking seems almost as impossible as flying does.

My left shoulder really damn hurts. It’s probably from where he threw me, up against the wall, and my shoulder soaked up the impact. That was yesterday, and it is still really painful. Even if I myself am going through this, I hope to god that my dad was easy on Caleb. Something in my gut, though, knows that he was treated just as bad.

I push a hand through my hair, finding that it glides through easily. I washed it the other day when I had my shower, but I still thought that there were tangles. I let out a small laugh, seeing that I find knots in my hair more interesting than anything right now. Am I going crazy? Possibly.

The shrieking continues to corrupt the silence, and it is only now that I realize that it isn’t shrieking. It’s the sound of… of sirens, wailing constantly. The thought would normally send a bullet of hope through me, but, even after five days of torture and isolation, I have given up all hope.

My fingers, spread evenly across the surface of the rickety, wooden floor, curl up into fists. My knuckles drag across the wood, leaving slight burn marks on the delicate skin. I don’t care. There’s too many marks on my arms to even care about small, red marks on my hands anymore.

A loud thump causes me to shriek and leap back to the corner of the room. My heart pounds in tune to the rapid thumping of something heavy against the door downstairs, and I close my eyes in fear that tears will escape and roll down my cheeks.

Muffled voices. Voices?

I shoot up and off of the floor, going to the flap at the corner of the room that I know leads to the ladders to get out of the attic. I take my fist and raise it, preparing to knock loudly and violently on the door in hope that somebody will hear me. But I pause, flattening out on the ground and pressing my ear to the door instead of knocking on it.