More Then Just Broken

1. Hate

"Gem! You little bitch lift your lazy ass of that bed and come make breakfast!" My dad yelled.

I had overslept.

I stood up from the bed feeling sore, a painful reminder of last night's abuse. I brushed my teeth and washed my face as quickly as possible then I went down stairs and prepared breakfast, like a good girl because good girls don't get punished.

I made some eggs, toast, coffee and bacon just like I did every other day but never once did I indulge in the food, that advantage I had to earn.

Once I was done I served my father- Josh, my mother- Linda and my sister- Alice their breakfast in the dining room, then I quickly ate my breakfast which consisted of plain bread and water in the kitchen. Pitiful, I know.

I never really understood my name. Gem. Wasn't that the name of a precious jewel? I was not precious and I lacked the value of a jewel.

I hated my family just as they  hated me. My mother? Beautiful! Just like my dad, just like my sister. They all shared a similarity of blonde hair and either blue or brown eyes but I was different and they made that very clear. I was the mistake child, with brown hair and hazel eyes.

I hated myself, they made me hate myself. Quite typical  really for a person who is abused physically, mentally and emotionally. But what's not to hate? My slim body that lacked nutrition. I promise I'm not sick but in people's eyes, I'm probably just a typical teenager who just wants to fit in that pair of jeans so badly to the point that I stopped eating. Let's not forget my looks, but what looks? All there was were scabs, bruises and scars.

Don't listen to the negativity they said, tell an adult or someone you trust they said, stand up to your bullies they said, call childline, the police, safelines, the ambulance they said.

But that's all bullshit! There is no one to help you. You are all alone because where were they when you cried in pain that night. The police? Safelines? It is their jobs to act like they care. They say scripted lines never once meaning them as long as they get their pay.

They make it look so easy. But they don't understand that staying alive becomes an obstacle, a contempt.

I always wondered though, if I were to die who would cry for me, who would notice my absents but then again I am one in a million. I am a speck of sand in a beach.

People like my sister though, people would literally weep if she dies. I wonder if its because of her notorious  reputation or because they just generally like her.

She was a stereotypical mean girl. Always wore short clothes, flirts with guys that are either handsome, popular or rich. I'm pretty sure she sleeps with them too.

I've come to realise that people like my sister are praised and the good people, the innocent people are degraded and placed in the shadows of others, Like me...

My life has always been in the shadows of other people. I've always been my dad's punching bag and my mom seems to have forgotten that I'm her daughter, she always supports Alice as if she was an angel and me...the girl who lives in their house rent free.

My sister hates me for no particular reason but I hate her just as much but I don't have the strength that she has to vocalize my hate for her.

She and her gang of populars always attack me. I can't be the only ugly, geeky nerd in school but I seem to be their favourite. They had a dangerous obsession with me.

There was no escape, you'd think when you get home you get to your safe haven but no home is much more dangerous...

Since it was a Monday and a school day, unfortunately, after I made and ate breakfast I went to take a shower. My room had no bathroom so I had to use the guest bathroom.

When I was done I picked out an over sized black T-shirt, black jeans and a hoodie. The clothes were big on me but non the less did the job of hiding my wounds, I didn't  really have much clothes anyway and the ones I had weren't  "in season" like how Alice liked to put it.

My clothes just like everything else I owned were worn out, old or passed down, even my room which was the smallest room in the house with only a single bed, a table with a lamp and a wardrobe.

Even though my room was dull I tried to keep it colourful with my artwork.

The brightness the art gives chases away the darkness. Keeps me sane, it's my escape, so is reading, but I don't have many books I probably have read the same book about 5 times. Pitiful, I know.