Atlas Grove, once a dancer with dreams of dancing under the stars, now lives petrified in the shadows of abuse. To escape her living nightmare she must keep her head down and work hard, being her senior year this is her last chance to get out. Altho...
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Pain travels through my leg as I swing it over the side of my bed, courteous of the fresh purple bruise making a home on the back of my knee and thigh.
Trying to conceal the grunt I make in pain, I get up from the bed and tiptoe across to my bathroom in aid of a hot shower to get ready for the first day of my last year. I grab a hoodie and pair of jeans to throw on after, scruffy but it's not like I've got much to dress up for.
I go to school, study and come home.
If my life was a book it would be a notebook... empty and full of barriers that stop your letters falling into each other. The notebook of Atlas Grove, sometimes you'll get the smudges of ink that prevent you from writing on those lines completely and other times you just won't know what to write.
I jump in the shower letting the hot water soothe my aching muscles, it travels down the marks and busted cuts that scatter my body. The sting is minimal pain in comparison to how they were acquired. I wash through my blonde locks being careful not to get the soapy suds in my eyes. The bathroom fills with steam which wiggles its way into my tired lungs when I take a deep breath, hands pressed against the cool tiles.
A year, that's all. Just get through the year Atlas.
Feeling fresher, rid of the oil that gathered on my skin during the night, I step out of the shower onto the cold bathroom floor. I tie a towel around my body and swivel my hair up to dry slightly, using the last towel to wipe the murky mirror where a condensed cloud had covered it. I dry down and throw on the clothes slung on the counter before applying a light base of make-up, covering the daunting black bags under my eyes. Pulling the mascara wand out of the tube I stand contemplating for a few moments.
Oh, screw it.
I push it back in and throw the bottle back onto the vanity area. My hair manly covers my eyes anyway. I still do my eyebrows since they're basically non-excitant, perks of being a blonde I guess, then pull my wet hair out of the towel and brush it so it doesn't look like a bird's nest.
I grab my rucksack from my chair, catching sight of the ballet shoes peeking out from under my bed as I go to shut the door. I sigh kicking them back under into the abyss of crap I've stored under there.
Sorry, mom. Another day.
I lean my head against my bedroom door, it's a lie. It's always going to be a lie. They've been collecting dust for the past four years and this year I plan for them to start harvesting spiders.
My stomach growls alerting me to the fact I need to move down to the kitchen and get going or I'll be late.
I walk into the kitchen holding my breath, unsure of what the mood with be this morning. My parents- well if you can call them that- my adoptive parents are stood in the silence, my dad scowling at the shaking newspaper in his hands and my mom pouring a cup of coffee, not so suitably adding a 'drop' of brandy.
