Chiara Rose

uno

tw - slight mention of self harm, and strong mention of abuse, and rape. there will be no warning before specific scenes, so please be careful.

roughly two years later

Chiara's POV

Pain.

That was the very first thing I felt when I woke up this morning. I couldn't figure out what was sore, I mean, there are multiple places the pain could be radiating from. For starters, it could be coming from my ribs from where John got a bit excited and kicked me too hard last night. Or it could be from downstairs from where John got even more excited and had his way with me.

And how could we forget the back of my head, where my dear mother smashed a beer bottle across the back of my head when I forgot to pick her up a bottle of scotch on the way home. It's probably also from this stupid mattress I've been sleeping on for the past 8 years, which is laying straight on the cold, concrete floor.

Instead of trying to figure out why I'm in pain and maybe do something about it, I do what I do best, ignore it and try to go back to sleep. And pray to the Gods that it will disappear at some stage and not kill me at the same time. Although, that wouldn't be the worst idea ever.

But it turns out that rolling over doesn't really help, although I have now figured out that the pain is coming from my ribs. Not the other ten thousand things I listed off earlier, but those are probably still a bit of an issue.

My recent discovery of where the pain is coming from motivates me to get out of bed and do something about it. So I quickly roll over, which isn't very quick considering my physical state and hobble my way out of bed. I pause once I've swung my legs over the edge, and just take a moment to realise how shit my home life is.

For starters, my little area is so shit it barely passes as a room. I've got the 'basement' as John likes to call it, but it's bullshit. For starters, we live in Australia, we don't have basements. This is just a larger-than-normal cellar that John renovated poorly himself and so generously gave to me.

He's taken most of the wine racks off, terribly might I add. But he left a few of them for me to store my belongings on. He obviously didn't take them off carefully, as there are some spots where the plaster has been completely ripped off, and then there are spots where there are still splinters of wood stuck against the wall.

Then there's the pathetic excuse of a bathroom sitting in the corner of my room. It's shit, and I can guarantee you that if some building inspector person were to come through, this bathroom would not meet any regulations. Not one.

It's literally just a sink, mirror and a toilet situated in the corner of my 'room'. It's pathetic honestly, I don't understand why I can't use the perfectly fine guest bedroom sitting upstairs. From the outside, it seems like it's my room. It's got photos of a baby me and some other kid my age that mum claimed was her distant best friend's son.

There's also a very soft and comfortable-looking queen-sized bed in there, a very well-sized built-in cupboard. There's also an ensuite, which I can promise you will meet all laws and regulations. But that's the room I have to say is mine whenever the police or child protective services come sniffing around.

I let out a hefty sigh, and lazily make my way over to my cute little bathroom. I was planning on going to the toilet, but I get stuck looking at myself in the mirror. Some would say that it's incredibly vain of me, but no. I'm more focused on how shit I look right now.

My long, brown hair is all knotted up and is starting to resemble a bird's nest. I don't know why I haven't bothered cutting it short yet, it'll be a lot easier to take care of considering my living situation. But I suppose it's nice to feel like I have control over how my hair looks. It's something I won't change because of John and Mum.