You & I - Just a bet ˢᵃˢᵘⁿᵃʳᵘ

1

Heyo!

I don't know how to start... xD This is an ultra old story of mine that I somehow started back in 2011 or something? I saw it and kinda felt like redoing it from scratch and here's chapter 1. xD
BUT I can't say how often updates will come. At the moment I really want to revise this one and upload it.
Then I'll continue writing here, depending on how much I feel like it, since my other two stories have a slightly higher priority for me ;w;
Otherwise I actually have to put in a little spoiler, because I don't want it to be blocked and I know that this topic is viewed a bit more critically than others? Idk... xD So: This story contains NO INCEST!

And a reminder that I put in every story: my mother tongue is not English. So if there are any grammatical or colloquial errors, I'm very sorry :c

Otherwise, have fun reading ♥

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Since my parents separated, I lived with my father in Sunagakure, a dusty city surrounded by endless desert landscapes. On my fifth birthday, something happened that changed my world forever. On that day, my brother and I were torn apart as if we were just toys that had been carelessly thrown away, while my brother stayed with our mother in Konohagakure.
The separation tore my heart apart and the longing for my brother was like a permanent sting in my chest that just wouldn't heal. We weren't just siblings; we were soul mates, and his absence left a painful void in my life that made me infinitely sad. I missed him so much sometimes that it was even hard to breathe.

Every now and then, like now, while I sat in the bathroom in pain, nursing my wounds, I fantasized about what it would have been like if our parents had never separated.
Life in Sunagakure was like an endless nightmare. My father didn't treat me like his son, but rather like a priceless slave.
Every day I was forced to do everything for him. From the early hours of the morning until late at night, my life was dominated by the relentless tasks my father imposed on me. Cooking, shopping, laundry, cleaning the house and not forgetting the garden work, which was almost impossible in this parched environment. Added to this was the pressure to keep up at school and the weekends were not a time to relax, but a time when I was forced to earn money for my father's drinking whether I wanted to or not. He took and did what he wanted and I had no way of resisting.
Sunagakure was my prison and I was its prisoner, trapped in my father's chains. A prison from which there was no escape. Every day was torture, every breath a struggle against the paralyzing emptiness that threatened to suffocate me from the inside out, pulling me inexorably into the abyss.
I cried myself to sleep every day, knowing that nothing would ever change, no matter how much I wished it would. And so this miserable state became my daily routine, almost a habit.

I slowly rose from the edge of the bathtub, my fingers still trembling from the painstaking care of my wounds, and the first aid kit I had just used disappeared back into the cupboard. The room around me is cold and gloomy, the walls are covered in peeling paint, the wallpaper is torn and run-down in places. A feeling of desolation fills the room, reinforced by the soft dripping of a leaking tap.
The mirror in front of me was cloudy and speckled with water splashes, but even through the streaks and stains it showed me the pathetic image of my body.
The sight was simply disgusting.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I see not only the physical traces of the abuse, but also the broken soul that lies hidden behind it. The eyes, once bright and full of life, are now empty and hopeless, a sad reflection of the destruction my own father had brought upon me.
My body is covered in so many scars that it looks like a battlefield. I was so emaciated that you could clearly see my ribs and other bones. My father only gave me the bare necessities to eat, while he himself lived in luxury.
Some scars are faded and blurred, others fresh and burning with pain. Every bruise, every tear in my skin reminds me of my father's cruelty, torturing his own flesh and blood with brutal abandon.

In the hottest summer days, I hid my wounds under long sleeves and pants to hide the shame my father had brought upon me. The heat became another enemy that tormented me, but I endured it, unable to reveal my scars.
People in the neighborhood always looked at me with suspicious glances, but no one dared to ask questions. They regarded me as a disturbed mute outsider.
Because my father took his moods out on me and I was the living target of his anger, I had no other choice.
He beats me with his own fists, sometimes he also uses the surrounding objects that he got up to hurt me.
The beatings are sometimes so severe that I became unable to move as the pain is unbearable. I am often covered in blood, with open wounds that I sew up myself because my father would rather let me bleed to death than take me to a doctor. Especially as I wasn't even allowed to see a doctor. He forbade me and I obeyed, afraid of the consequences if I broke this rule.

In the beginning, of course, I resisted the abuse, but I was only a five-year-old child and didn't understand the world around me. Every time I tried to utter words, he smothered them with his hands or a cloth that he stuffed in my mouth to shut me up. So I learned not to make a sound, not a single word, not even a cry of pain.
At first it was just verbal abuse. He called me worthless, a miscarriage that should never have been born. He blamed me for my parents' separation and claimed I deserved all the suffering he caused me. He also said I should be grateful to him for taking me in at all. I can't even remember exactly when the words of humiliation turned into physical violence.
I became a doll that had no value and was lucky to be allowed to exist at all.

My father's angry voice echoed through the dark corridors of the house. "Where the hell are you, you useless piece of shit? Come here now!" he roared. He was furious, I could hear it. An icy shiver ran down my spine as I hurried to put on my top and walk to the living room, where the scream was coming from.
When I finally reached the living room, where the scream was coming from, his gaze met me with a mixture of contempt and aggression. An empty bottle flew past me and smashed against the wall with a deafening crash, making my pulse beat even faster. "Make yourself useful and get me a fucking drink!" he ordered in a voice quivering with aggression, forcing me to be obedient. Without saying a word, I hurried into the kitchen, fear like a knife in my stomach.
With shaky hands, I grabbed another bottle and returned to the living room. No sooner had I placed the bottle on the table than he jumped up, his face contorted with anger, and hurled it at my head with full force. I staggered back and felt the sharp pain as the glass hit my head. I found myself on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass and alcohol dripping from my face. "How can you be so disrespectful, you miserable piece of shit!" he roared. "Get my bitch a drink too and clean up the fucking mess you made!"

I got up with difficulty, my limbs as heavy as lead, and slowly made my way back to the kitchen, my head pounding with pain. I opened the fridge door again and this time took out two bottles, my fingers closed tightly around them as I also reached for a cloth. With a deep breath, I returned, my steps unsteady as I made my way to the living room, where this time I placed two bottles on the table.
Then I knelt on the floor, my gaze fixed on the debris as I began to pick up the shards. Each piece of glass felt like a tiny fragment of my broken soul, pulling me deeper into the abyss with every touch. The acrid smell of alcohol stung my nose, almost making me retch as I struggled through the remains, my fingers cutting painfully on the sharp edges.
"Useless scum," my father spat out, kicking me in the back once more. I gritted my teeth in pain, but I held on, unable to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. I bit my lower lip, tasting blood in my mouth as I just kept going, my eyes fixed on the floor.

His malicious laughter pierced the silence in the room, accompanied by a mischievous giggle from the woman sitting casually next to him on the couch.

During the time we lived in Sunagakure, my father had countless women around him, as if he was afraid of the emptiness my mother had left behind. They treated me with the same coldness as my father, as if I were nothing more than an insignificant appendage.
They shouted at me, hit me and sometimes stole money from my father and blamed me for it. Bottom line: I was punished without having done anything wrong, a victim of a world that had condemned me from the start.
When I finally collected the last shard of the shattered bottle, I got up and took it away. I then went back to the bathroom to rid myself of the acrid smell of alcohol. When I looked in the mirror, I recognized the red liquid that was slowly running down my forehead. A laceration, another scar on my body that reminded me of the cruelty I had endured. I felt the pain on my head, but in a strangely sad way I had become used to this kind of pain, it had become a constant companion in my life.

I looked at the wound and sighed in resignation. It needed stitches, and I had stitched a small wound on my stomach less than 20 minutes ago.

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