|•| Christians p.o.v |•|
I hate birthdays.
There a dreading reminder of the my horrid, early childhood. I remember them as funerals.
Funerals, in the sense of a figure of speech. Every year, I would lose another flame of my innocence.
Each flame was blown away by someone.
He still haunts me in my nightmares, I can still remember his deathly voice, the one that made me scream for my dear life.
His eyes, they were two ice glaciers. Cold and deadly, they never showed emotion; Besides anger.
His violence. The thing I remember the most. His repeated blows to my stomach, chest and face. Only stopping when I looked dead.
No one to protect me. Not even my mother.
She was an inconsiderate crack whore, and her pimp a.k.a her and my abuser; he would lash at her without a pause.
She looked so dead, she never blinked. All she did was take his shit, all the bruises he gave her all the scars he created, she took them all.
He never seemed satisfied, he'd beat her for about an hour, then he would get bored and come look for me.
The sound of his boots are my aching fear, they were a signal. A signal that the worst was coming.
I tried to hide, I tried.
But, he always found me. Always. Like he knew where I was, like he could smell me.
I was his prey, he was my predator.
When he finally stopped, it was too late for me to live a normal life.
My mother had overdosed, and I, unaware of the situation, I sat there and stared at her.
I played with my toy cars, and waited for her to awake, but she never did.
When people started to realize that my mother was dead, my last flame of innocence was metaphorically gone.
The questioning, many police officers and detectives tried to get information about my mothers death.
But I couldn't provide any information, all I could do was stare at them and cry. Cry for my mother.
The woman, Who didn't protect me, when I needed safety.
Who lost me, when I needed finding.
The woman, who didn't love me, when I thought I was hated.
She may have been my biological mother, but she wasn't and will never be my mother.
A mother, is the woman who loves her children, who puts them first; instead of alcohol and drugs.
A mother, is a woman who protects her children, who sacrifices there well-being for them; instead of them staring at there children, while there being tortured.
My mind is suffocating me, pulling me into a trance of darkness. I always try to pull out, but only lightness can do that.
And I only have one light, and as cheesy as it may sound; Ana is my light.
She helps me forget my past, and replaces it with beautiful memories.
Ahh! Ana, my beautiful girl. Her body; her beautiful blue eyes, her mouth...wait. What the hell?
YOU ARE READING
Light fifty shades
Fanfiction{All wнoм are ғιғтy ѕнadѕ oғ grey ғanѕ/readerѕ/oвѕeѕѕorѕ/addιcтѕ/ғanaѕιzѕerѕ...eтc.} Now I promise This isn't another story about a guy whose a player/badboy/ or just really popular. NO. If you want that story go look it up. Anyways If you read m...
