Abused and Unloved~

Chapter One

My eyes dart with anticipation towards the old fashioned clock positioned at the hallway arch indicating it was time for first period.

For obvious reasons I hated loitering around in the hallway or courtyard not being able to talk to anyone.

I mostly keep to myself to avoid anyone unintentionally finding out about my living situation. The less involved the better right?

Too many questions. Too many answers. Not enough acting skills.

It's just an easier lifestyle.

I could go to the police. Telling the whole world about my parents and torment was a possibility. It's not like I couldn't construct a plan to get to the police station before they noticed. I could even use my sister's phone claiming I wanted to call a friend and actually call the cops or child services instead.

Everyone thinks that static abused kids are idiots. People assume we don't know that there are various viable options. That we don't notice all the adults around with the ability to help or that we aren't aware of the available technology that can be borrowed and used as an escape. They think we're just plain stupid. We're not.

I'm not saying there's a club specifically for genius neglected kids, we don't exactly meet up every week for a seminar, but I know how they think. It's how I think.

There's multiple factors and reasons that go into an abused kid keeping his or her mouth shut.

Mine just happens to be this beloved sister I never shut up or stop thinking about, I was sticking it out for her. I don't want us to end up in foster care, a lot of things can happen once we're in the system. One major thing and source of anxiety is that we can be separated, and I don't want that kind of life for her.

Granted, it would be ten times better than the life I currently have, but I can't only think of myself.

With some struggle, I begin walking to class with my head down. My hollowed face held a fresh cut on my jawline and I didn't want anyone to catch wind of it. There wasn't much time to cover it up while getting ready because of how freaking sore I was.

This morning I could hardly make it to the bathroom to relieve myself. I practically crawled and limped around my room for the entirety of my morning routine. After a beating you don't really feel it, it's essentially a radiating numbness, all you can do is hope and pray that the next day you don't feel it either.

I always do.

You would think that after all these years my body would suck it up and acclimate. But you never really do, there's always that lingering sting or pinch. Always that reminder that you're living in an eternal hell.

My parents aren't mental. They don't hurt me because they're crazy and their psyche is all messed up. They hurt me because they want to, because I deserve it. They find it funny. They're doing it to exact revenge— or at least that's why my mother is.

After a few shaky steps I glance down and spot my shoelace has untied. The mere thought of bending down makes my blood run cold with nerves.

You got this Jessie. Fight the power. You're a strong independent woman.

I guess part of me should be happy I even got shoes this school year.

Part of their pleasure came from depriving me, making me feel like less of a human.

No cell phone, no new clothes, no new shoes, no new school supplies, sometimes I don't even get to eat or consciously shower.

It was effective, I felt like an animal most days.