All Alone

People aren't very bright.

The first time the police sent in a social worker to ask what had happened to me, I completely shut down, and when I tried to talk, I ended up puking. This was the same case in our second, third, and fourth encounter. Did this stop them from poking and prodding into the darkest recesses of my mind? Of course not. I didn't want to remember, I still don't want to remember. You would think that it would become easier to talk about as more time passed, but it has been six months, and I am still mortified to utter his name. The social worker told me that my new family would be loving, and would care for me. I still don't now if she was evil or blind.

My new 'family' consists of a mother, father, and twin brothers. All of them act like twits. The twins are 17 like me, and They have taken quite a liking to beating me when they get upset. I told their parents about two months in, and They shouted obscenities at me, calling me a whore who picked on their angels for attention. Due to my 'accusation', they too began to abuse me. They were too inexperienced though, and They made a mistake.

They robbed me of my voice, I went to the hospital that night and resided in the wings for 6 weeks. They pulled me out of treatment before I could start speech therapy; They like me silent.

 I never share these details with anyone, as my interests do not lie in getting pitied by others. I know it is probably foolish, but in my simplest form, I am a prideful creature.

I have always despised those who take their families for granted. Those who yell at their mothers for calling too much, or their father's for taking away their phone when they get in trouble. Why do people so often forget how lucky they are? I guess I used to be that way too. Back when I spoke and had a family, I never really thought of how others suffered; karma, am I right?

I live in my mind now, I don't do much outside of my own head. I breathe, eat, sleep, go to school, and take the beatings. That is how my life has gone for the past four months, the funny thing is that I don't really care anymore. I no longer feel pain when They cut me or tarnish my innocence, I am numb. 

They told me that I need to get ready for the semi-annual interview conducted by my social worker, Katrina Pierce. They said that this is a mere formality, and it doesn't even matter if she sees my bruises. They still want me to clean up though. They hate to see the bruises and cuts, and they absolutely loathe my lifeless eyes. They don't realize or care, that I can no longer see the light. My eyes now see a faded world, filled with more cruelty than most care to see, Them included. I sit at my vanity and look at the pale face staring back at me.

I have never been fond of mirrors, they are all brutally honest, and as much as I wish I wasn't pained by my reflection, I am. My dull grey eyes no longer hold their innocent shimmer, my hair is black, but no longer glossy, and my formerly luscious pink lips are split and chapped. The bags under my eyes are so pronounced that they could be carrying groceries, I don't sleep a lot. Tearing my gaze away from my bruised neck and the black eye, I stare down at the arsenal of makeup at my disposal.

I have always found it funny how much concealer I own. They are so paranoid and They think that if others saw my bruised and scars that they would care. I have sticks and wands of concealer, but even after I apply all of the concealers to my body, my eyes stare back, lifeless, and anyone that actually cared could clearly see that. I may be generalizing though, I am sure that there are some truly oblivious people in the world.

I wish that everyone didn't automatically assume that I was a snob or rich girl because of my clothes. They see the blouses and skirts, but not the ribs or the cheekbones. They buy me expensive name brand clothing, to keep up appearances, so I wear the designer jeans, dresses and skirts, trying to lessen the abuse. I haven't picked an outfit for myself since I got here. I don't really have my own style anymore, I have Their style. I wish that I could stop thinking sometimes, but I refuse to give them that satisfaction. They already broke me, I refuse to let them kill me.

***

I walk down the stairs, my makeup perfected, and my clothes presentable. I hear them screaming at me to get my act together,  but I don't say a word. I walk to the kitchen, unresponsive to their commands, and begin to busy myself with making dinner. To them, that is all I am good for, meals. I prep the salad, trying to ignore the twins wandering hands, not making a peep when they begin yanking my hair. You would think that the knife I was holding would discourage this, you'd be wrong. They know I won't fight back. I never fight back.

***

Hey y'all! So this story is a little bit different, and if you aren't in the mood to cry, you might want to try a different book. This story is going to talk about some really sensitive topics, and it isn't some cliche happy love story... okay maybe a little cliche near the end, and way funnier than it should be.

She is not selectively mute, and I will elaborate on what happened further into the book. She is physically unable to form words, so if you read this and there are people commenting later in the book, please help me out and tell them that she is mute.

I am aware that my writing is not perfect, but I do hope that you won't dismiss my book for it. I encourage some critiques, but if the critiques turn into insults, your comment will be deleted... or not because I find them amusing.

Love Y'all!

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~Experiment51