A/N: sowwy, but i''ve updated all of the first 3 chappies, so they don't sound soo clever for their age... so read and enjoy;oD
He was a childhood friend. That's how it started, anyways. A young boy, with short dark hair, nearly black and usually clad in lively, albeit dark colours. His eyes were happy, always. Even when he had gotten himself bruised, he managed to look happy, but I knew that was only the behaviour around me. And somehow it bothered me, because I always wanted to help, and he would refuse it. Already then he had strength. He would always speak for his cause. It then became a kind of infatuation. Maybe just superficial at first, I don't know, but it became a whole lot more than that.. Back then, I didn't know it would turn out like this. But I doubt I would have chosen differently, no matter.
She called me her love-child, my mother. But she died. I still don't know how, or why, but I saw her coughing blood on the kitchen floor and I rushed to her but she held her hands in front of her and said,
"No, girl! Angel, you must run. Please! Leave-"
She got into a dreadful coughing fit, and after that, she tried to stabilise her breathing, impossible, and she drew her very last breath. She got the blankest of eyes. More blank than the ones my father possessed afterwards, when he started drinking. Then, probably just my imagination, her eyes looked bidding and happy, but also concealed a dreadful secret. And they told me that it would happen to me too, one day. A tone, as high pitched as a mountain top rang out through my mouth and tears started pouring down my cheeks. For a short moment, nothing. Then, my father came running through the house and into the kitchen, looking at me with an angered and confused expression. Then his eyes left me, to focus on the blood behind me, spreading in a pool around a body: his wife. He stared a few minutes, and his surprised face was gone: he knew what had happened. I felt a rage inside of me, so disgusted by the lack of tears from my father. He should cry, he should care! He turned to me and grabbed my arm and dragged me into my bedroom and threw me on the bed.
"Stay!" he said forcefully as he exited and a rustle came from the door, indicating he had locked it. I was too shocked to do anything else than cry. An hour later the house was bustling with footsteps and moans from people I could not see. My sorrow had turned into rage against my father. He had looked like he suffered no loss at all, but he looked burdened by the of having to bring a 7 year-old girl into adulthood by himself. He was not my father. Not really, I knew that. All he ever did around the house was embarrass his "wife" in front of her friends and his own. Letting his friends grab her if she was cook for his "dinner-party".
There were rustling at my door again and my dad came in and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. They were almost as blank as my mother's had been. He walked slowly up to my bed and I said,
He said nothing, just circled my bed and took of his shirt and started unbuttoning his pants and I didn't understand what he was doing. He got under the covers and pressed himself up against me, letting his fingers touch me and then explore me. My eyes got wide and I began pushing away his all-too playful fingers. I slapped him, though not hard enough, but he slapped back and I became unconscious. This, was my birthday present.
7 years passed and the abuse, continued. His ravishing rituals only happened once or twice a week, when he didn't have a lady friend. His touch and lust did not satisfy me or make me happy, they were not gentle but hard and ruff. Rage and disgust filled me every time he entered my locked room. Sometimes he would bring me food, other times he brought a horse whip, which was coloured in my crimson blood. I would feel sick and dizzy when he entered with it, smacking it lightly against his open palm. He'd force me to pleasure him, or, as he said, the whip would be repainted. I struggled against him, as usual, and the whip flew over my back, making me wince and cry in pain. I was lucky enough to fight him off, some of times, because he was to tired for a fight, but he would assault me in the midnight hour, too.
When he raped me, he made sure never to be drunk, afraid I might run from him. One night, as I was rehearsing "dinner time" conversations with a delightful accent, he was drunk, when he came in side my room, but a woman followed, looking playful at first, but disgusted by the look of the room, and even more, when she saw me. My eyes got wide and I curled myself together.
"What is it you think you are doing?!" she screeched at my father.
"Don't worry, love... she'll be obedient," he said, looking from her to me with a hungry look.
I stared at the woman with fear in my eyes, and it would seem she understood what was about to happen. What had happened.
"Oh, my God! You ca-... you can't do that!! She's... she's just a child, Arman! What is wrong with you?!" she continued.
He just stared at her. I knew that he was about to slap her to unconsciousness, and then rape me afterwards. I shuddered and felt nauseous, having puking spasms and cramps rush through my body. It got black before my eyes a few seconds and I hurled on the floor, getting an awful taste in my mouth.
He walked up to the stranger-woman, drew his hand back and slapped her across the face, making her fall on the floor, put out like a candle in the wind. He moved over to me and held me up: he was a big man, though the volume wasn't muscles. He smelt me, giving his consent, and then kissed me violently. I gasped in his kiss, and felt my stomach contract once again, giving my stomach-acid a step stone to my mouth. Luckily for him, he drew back before I hurled him in his mouth, instead puking him down his chest. He let go off me and dropped me unceremoniously on my bed, while trying to whiff off the acid-porridge on his front.
"Leave me ALONE!!!" I screamed in his face, leaning over the bed fence to puke again, but nothing came; my resources were used.
As soon as he had gotten the most smudge off his shirt he threw himself upon me again, unbuttoning his pants as fast as he could, what with the alcohol killing his brain cells. I kicked at him, trying to throw him off of me, but I wasn't all too successful on that point. Suddenly, a shadow came over me and my father, and the dullest of thuds smashed in on his empty scull. The woman from before had taken a piece of plank wood from my now-broken cabinet and whipped my father's head with it. She smiled faintly.
"Let's get out of here! Pack something, your clothes!" she whispered urgently. I pulled the few cloth bits I had, from the floor, stuffing them into a ripped-up bag, but for now, it had to do. Before we left my room, I saw my father's eyes flutter open and looking around in confusion. It was all twirling in my head, when I decided that running would be my only way away from here. I snatched a cloak from a chair and ran out, pulling the woman with me, but I just noticed a strong hand grabbing her and then the sound of a snatching bone. It ran cold down my back, and I was disgusted and nausea welled up again. My heart was in my mouth, the adrenalin and blood pumping in my body and temples, making me both deaf and blind. I felt myself stumble into people, who shouted to me to be more careful and all I did was run. Run away from it all. I finally stopped at a tall and huge wall, falling over a big brick stone. It was sticking out of the wall, as if it had been pushed out from the other side.
I pulled and pushed at the stone and finally got it out. As scrawny and little as I was, it was easy to get in. It was late and I could hardly keep myself awake. I didn't notice the garden I had entered. All I sensed was a bush nearby, in which I hid, to sleep. I only just noticed running footsteps and a slight pain in my side.
"Argh! What was-... MOTHER!" a young man shouted.
Something cosy, like pillows and blankets were wrapped around me. A slow breathe was taken right next to me, as though the thing or person who took it, was asleep. I opened my eyes, sat up and looked at the most unbelievable scenery: golden walls, silver framed pictures, furniture and a view over a grass green garden with coloured flowers. My first thought was that I had died and come to heaven. But the young man beside me, I noticed, proved otherwise. I looked at him in fear and disgust and fell out of the bed raising myself to look at him, watchfully. He had raven hair and pointed features of smiling and laughter. He had a smile on his face, and after searching myself for bruises on me and on the clothes, which wasn't mine, my face slit into one, just like it. His hair was grown down to the tip of his ears, he looked very agile and muscular. He was very handsome, and looked like he was the same age as me.
I turned my face and looked into a mirror just opposite the bed and saw: me. The smile looked nice and suitable and, without no reason, I started laughing. I hadn't done that, properly, for 7 years. The boy next to made a sound, somewhere between a grunt and a snort, which made me laugh even more, which made it sting in my stomach. I tried to pipe down, and ran to the window pressing my nose flat against the glass, looking out at people going around, doing chores. It was wonderful! How did I get here? I was broken from my small reverie by a semi-deep voice.
A/N: sorry I had to make it all over again, but you gotta admit: It was worth it! R&R, please don't flame!