Cross My Heart // Harry Styles

1

GWEN'S POV:

SLAP!
His big hand came across my face so hard, I saw stars. The force knocked me over to a half sitting, half laying position on my side. A lot of my hair fell out of my ponytail, he hit me so hard. The fork I had been holding had flung across the kitchen and slid under one of the ovens. My eyes hadn't even regained focus yet, before I felt his fist in my hair, pulling me up by my now loosened ponytail. I could hardly move to make myself stand, but I had to, or my scalp would be ripped from my head, it felt like. As soon as I was standing shakily, I caught the blurry shadow of his other hand coming up from the other side now, just before it too connected with my face. Again, I was thrown to the floor with the force of his other big hand. This time I had stumbled a few times, tripping over a counter's legs, then falling backward, landing on my butt. My arms caught the ground behind me, and stopped the top of my body's momentum from falling the rest of the way back. My vision was again blurred on top of the already blurred from the first hit. Only this time, it was even blurrier, with tears.

The tears poured from my face silently, while my mind screamed and cried. I knew better than to make any noise. Someone might hear me from the restaurant. If that happened, this beating would feel like a kindergarten spanking compared to what would happen to me then.

My stomach was strong, though. It had gotten strong after all these years of this. My stomach was the only thing that kept my cries inside my overly thin body. The muscles of my stomach. If it weren't for them......

Every time a cry or sob or scream wanted to come out of my mouth, my stomach muscles clenched together as tight as they could and pushed the sound back down into my throat. I guess my stomach sort of kept me alive, you could say. Needless to say, I had a very toned stomach by now. And I'd never done a second of exercise.

Within seconds again, his fist grabbed my ponytail and pulled me directly up so I was standing. Even faster than the first time. I couldn't even help myself stand this time. One second I was sitting on the floor, the next, I was standing. Just like that.

My head hurt so badly where my hair had held all of my weight. I was thankful that I was so skinny and light.

"A fuc.king HAIR in the fuc.king SALAD!" he yelled quietly at me. After hours, his roaring voice would have filled up the entire building. But there were customers in the dining area now, so he had to yell "quietly". And he did. And it was equally as threatening and scary.

He knew just whose hair it was. The hair must have been brown. I was the only brunette. If the hair would have been black and straight and thin, it would have been the Asian girl. If it was curly black, it would have been from the black girl. If it was black and wavy, the Hispanic girl. If it was blonde, it would have been the blonde girl. Red? That would be the redhead girl. This one was apparently brown and mostly straight, according to the beating I was receiving. Sometimes my hair and the Hispanic girl's hair got confused, and if there was a doubt whose it was, he'd beat us both, just to make sure whoever's it was, got their punishment.

That's the only way I knew the other girls. By their nationality or hair color. He didn't call us by our names. He was mean and nasty and racist and degraded all of us. We didn't even know each other's names. Why bother? We weren't allowed to talk anyway.  Every hair color was represented. If he could find more girls by other nationalities, he'd represent them too. But he was happy with his current collection. The men had their pick of fantasy girls, and that was perfect for his "other" business. The business that happened in the basement after restaurant hours. The one I hated most. We all hated most.

'A fuc.king hair in the salad' was all he said to me after he beat me across the face twice. He threw the plate at my face, and stomped away, back into his office. I was left standing there holding my mouth in pain, where the plate had connected with my lip, knocking it into my teeth. I could feel it swelling already. I could taste the blood. But mostly, I could feel the pain. My stomach muscles at full attention, ready to block any sounds I might accidentally make.

I looked around through blurry eyes, to see all the other girls let out breaths they probably didn't even realize they were holding, as they looked at me sadly. With the slamming of the office door, they all snapped back into attention and immediately got back to whatever they were working on. Cooking, chopping, grilling, flipping, etc.

That was my cue also. I flinched with the slamming door, and got on the floor to find that missing fork I used to be holding.

The black girl (remember, this is how I knew her. I didn't know her name. I only knew every girl by what the bas.tards called us.) walked by and pointed under the middle oven, and kept walking. I looked up at her with a thankful look and stuck my hand under and felt around for the fork, found it, tossed it into the sink, got another one and got back to work making more salads after fixing my ponytail tight.

My face still hurt horribly, and since the office door was closed now, I could finally let out a few quiet sobs as I made salad after salad. I could feel both of my cheeks along with my lip swelling as I worked and sobbed. I could also taste more blood, and feel it running slowly down my chin under my cut, swollen lip.

I was too busy to wipe it. I was too busy to touch my painful face with self care. I was too busy to wipe my tears as they dried on my face, while new ones took their place.  I had to get my work done. I didn't matter.

Only the salads mattered.