(Okay, this is my newest ANT Farm fanfiction! I'm really proud of it in fact, and I've been meaning to post it ever since we got an actual archive, but I never really got around to doing it because I typed it on my Droid and I needed to put it on a Word Document. Since I did, please don't be expecting frequent updates. You take what ya get and you don't throw a fit! :D

Sorry for making the AN so long, but I need to inform you of a couple things. ONE-flames WILL NOT be tolerated. If you absolutely must, do it in an anonymous review so I can delete it. Thank you. TWO-The song titles at the beginning are the songs I want you to listen to during the story. I know even I don't do it when most authors tell me to, but this is important because it actually helps the story along a little bit. Thanks again. )

Olive's Story: Misunderstood-Pink, Tied Together with a Smile-Taylor Swift.

"Olivia." Michelle Doyle stood in the doorway. Her daughter showed no sign of hearing her, merely stared blankly at the ceiling. waited, but when Olive showed no sign of responding, she sighed.

"Mother," Olive said to the dingy cream wall she was facing, lying on her back on the top bunk of a bunk bed, "that is not my name." Michelle looked tired, as though they had had this conversation before. She apparently didn't want to argue though, for she simply looked worn out and sad in that way a person does when the world is fighting you and winning.

"Okay, Olive." The blonde showed no satisfaction at being called such either, but she reached up and dragged a hand through the crooked part in her long, scattered waves. "Your father and I are going out." Olive waited. That was no news. Usually they didn't even tell her, just left a note on the table and a slam from the door. Her mother stepped into the dim light from a solitary sunbeam radiating through a thin red blanket used as a makeshift curtain for the huge window next to the girl.

She had on a green dress adorned with sequins, her glittery heels stuck in the faded white carpet as she awkwardly made her way across the room. "Olive," she started while jerking a heel out of the rug, "I just," here she reached the bed, "wanted to say," she grabbed Olive's wrist so she faced her, "that I love you." A pleading face gazed into Olive's. She jerked her wrist away from her mother's reach, curling herself across the outer edge of the bed.

The face showed anger for a moment, then the tired look returned. Her hand stretched toward her daughter's hair for a fraction of a second, but pulled back. She turned and walked the way back in silence. At the doorway she looked back hesitantly, but her daughter had already resumed her deadpan stare at the ceiling. Just leave, she begged her mother, please leave.

"Michelle! I don't have all day!" Her father pounded up the stairs and Olive winced, but just barely. A tall, brown haired man with hard green eyes adressed . "Is that thing taken care of?" He asked, jerking his head towards Olive. He frequently spoke as though his Olive was a slug, something grotesque that couldn't understand him. And Olive, therefore frequently felt like yelling: "This THING can understand you!" But she didn't dare. "We need to go. You," he jutted his chin at Olive, "will not be coming out from your room." Olive clenched her teeth but did nothing else to acknowledge that she had heard him.

The wall had become boring after just a few seconds so she had begun reading a book in her head. Black Beauty was a classic, and the poor horse's tragic abuse made her feel better.

She heard a front door slam. "Bye"-would it be so hard to say one word? "I love you too, Dad." She hissed bitterly as she swung her legs over the side to the ladder. Wasn't this the part where a fairy godmother would come and whisk the neglected, tragically misunderstood child away to a world of happiness? Yeah right, she had stopped hoping a long time ago. Tonight would be another screaming match, tomorrow another day of clipped words and frosty glares.

She had never thought, originally, that he would hit her. Not his Olivia. Not his little girl.

Famous last words.

It happened at a dinner. Her father was angry, she could tell, his apple eyes were burning. Her mother was smart, handing over food in silence, eating dinner without any commotion. She was less so, trying to lighten the mood with happy smiles and joyful exclaimations. Since no one would answer her beyond death glares and tight smiles, she reached over in front of her father to grab the salt. He grabbed her wrist, enraged, and squeezed hard. She shrieked quickly, tears filled her eyes as she tried to jerk it out of his grip. He simply squeezed harder, his eyes filling with malice. He finally let her go, she clasped her wrist with one hand, scared, and looked pleadingly towards her mother. She had been watching the entire event unfold, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She didn't react for a moment, but then pursed her lips and simply scolded Olive for being so disrespectful and rude.

Olive was between outraged and miserable; she had run up to her room in tears; and had spent hours crying and wallowing in self pity, hoping someone would come up to apologize and comfort her with a cool hand on her forehead.

But nobody did. Finally, with dry eyes and a pounding headache, she fell asleep. It was her first time crying herself to sleep; in her opinion it was the worst feeling anyone could wish to have. She wouldn't wish the hopeless feeling on her worst enemy.

She had woken up this morning with a bruised arm and a sad memory. Her pillow was still humid with tears; the back of her sore head was damp and warm. She would usually not even go down to breakfast just to spite her parents, but what good would that do? She was hungry, and maybe an energizing breakfast would wake her up.

School was bittersweet, an escape from her father but a chance to be discovered. Somehow, school gave her an excuse to look happy, and cheerful. It was like she was a solider, carrying a secret that would not be called such if she could reveal it, but if it were so, would enlighten everyone on exactly how brave she was.

She reached the kitchen. Without even glancing over, she knew her mother was sitting at the table, pretending to read her newspaper, but really looking over her cresent reading glasses and watching her daughter intently.

Olive crossed the kitchen, mantaining a chilly silence as she poured her juice and picked a blueberry muffin. The muffins had colorful cupcake wrappers protecting it from crumbling. Hmm.

As soon as she stepped out of view she sprinked the top of the muffin on the beige tile. A devious smile appeared breifly as she climbed the stairs, but was gone quickly, only leaving her now-usual hollow look. For what was her life if she was reduced to dripping food on the floor for happiness?

After closing her door quietly as not to get yelled at, she opened her pink swirled dresser. It resided in one corner of the room, which was dimly lit in accordance to a dark pink sunbeam shining through the blanket coated window. She sighed and walked over to turn on the light, blinking rapidly as light flooded the room.

A mirror was perched on a tack above the dresser; it was heart shaped and pink outlined. Olive caught a glance of herself in the reflective glass. She looked terrible; her blond hair was a mess, her blue green eyes red and puffy. Her skin was unusually pale, in accordance to the fact that she just woke up, and huge grayish bags resided under her eyes.

Ugly. It was her father's thought of her, most likely her mother's, and she had adopted it with the logic that she couldn't be disappointed if she had a low opinion of herself anyway. She was ugly; had horribly pale skin and stupid squinty eyes. No one would ever like her. She just wanted someone to think she was pretty, maybe love her and care for her. Was it really too much to ask?

No more of those thoughts, she told herself firmly. It is time for school, time for happiness, time to show off your gift. For Olive, despite her father's rude insults, refused to believe she was annoying. She was delightful, she told herself (and others), optimistically. For, really, God must have given her some sort of talent, right? Her gift was her reason for living.

Olive Daphne Doyle was special. It was true, she told herself. Just wait and see.