I am alone. Maybe I have Mom and Nate, but can I call them parents? Parents don't do what they do to me. Parents don't beat you for being a couple minutes late. They don't yell things that leave scars. They don't try to sell you for money so they can buy their poison. My parents don't care. Mom used to be good, before she started dating the wrong men. It's been going on since I was five, and I'm fourteen now. I'm broken, and nobody can fix me.
My routine hasn't changed in four years. Up at 5:30, shower, dress – clothes to hide the bruises, makeup to hide my face. Breakfast for them. School. Work at the coffee shop. Home before five. Dinner. Hopefully no beating. Bed. If I'm late with breakfast, I get it bad. So bad I can barely walk, bruises bloom for weeks.
Today is one of those days. I took too long in the shower, running down the stairs to whip up breakfast. Mom and Nate were already in the kitchen. When they saw me, Nate grabbed my hair, yanking me back.
"You bitch! Breakfast should be on the table *now*." He spat, slammed me against the wall. Mom punched me in the stomach, hand clamped over my throat, choking off my air.
"Please… Please stop. I’m… sorry." I gasped, trying to breathe.
"You should be." Mom let go, and I collapsed on the floor. Nate started kicking me in the ribs, again and again. He finally stopped. I dragged myself up, finished the food, put it on the table, and went to my room to check the damage.
The second I looked in the mirror, the tears started. A hand-shaped bruise on my neck, nail punctures. My ribs already turning purple. I knew it would be worse in a couple of days. I grabbed my makeup bag, smeared concealer over the neck bruise. Then, I went to my bed, dug under the mattress for the bottle of paracetamol. Two pills. I shoved the bottle back under the mattress, stuffed it into my backpack, and went to school. Fifteen minutes to make it.
I made it to school on time, went to my locker. Ariana, the popular bitch, was waiting. I ignored her, started getting my books.
"Did you do my homework, slut?"
I turned around. "Why would I do that? I'm not your slave." Ariana’s face twisted with rage. She raised her hand to slap me. I grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm behind her back.
"You shouldn't have tried that." I whispered in her ear. She tried to wrench free. I threw her against the lockers. People like Ariana are bullies, and I don't take crap from them. I fight back. I don't fight Mom and Nate. That just makes things worse. I left her on the ground, walked to my first class.
During lunch, I sat in the library with my cafeteria tray. I don’t have friends. Antisocial, quiet. I used to have one friend. Liam. Four years, he knew about the abuse, I made him swear not to tell. I’d have ended up in foster care. He moved a year ago. He was the only good thing in my life, kept me from falling apart. Now I’m drowning in anxiety and depression. It’s awful to have both at the same time. When the anxiety hits, I use pain to pull myself back. It’s not healthy.
After school, I went to the coffee shop, picked up my paycheck. My parents don’t know I work. I get to keep all the money. Today, I got $500.
I walked home, started dinner. Before I could turn on the stove, a knock on the door. I opened it to find two cops, faces grim.
“May I help you, officers?”
The one on the right said, “Sorry, honey. Your parents were in a car accident. They didn't make it.” They looked at me like they expected tears. I don’t cry for people. I cried with Liam. I don’t feel sad. I feel… relieved. They can’t hurt me anymore.
“So where do I go?”
“We ran your mom’s DNA. Found some relatives willing to take you in.”
“Who?” My mom doesn’t have anyone.
“Your older brothers.”