Million Dollar Man

Chapter Sixteen

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Chapter 16- Vulnerability

"And with a feeling I'll forget, I'm in love now"

Mama and dada, mommy and daddy, mother and father, or mom and dad, it seems as though the names for parents embark on a journey through innocence, as the child grows older.

"Mommy," and "daddy," are childlike references to parents, and tend to be changed.

Call me crazy, but I find it to be heartbreaking when the names change. I see it as a sign of loss, the loss of innocence and the weakening of a relationship.

We are brought into the world pure.

For the very first second we enter the world, we know nothing but love.

Unfortunately, in order to survive we must be altered and molded into something that this world will accept.

Innocence is lost and I swear to you it can never be found.

Now you tell me, I beg of you, tell me that the world is not fucked up? Tell me that one can live a pure life without being tainted by hatred and prejudice-

Because I would love to know if I could have avoided all this corruption.

The very thought sickens me.

Could I have been saved, salvaged from the ruin that was my life?

Whether or not I could have been, there's one thing I know now.

I have been beaten, broken, and abused.

Nothing can save me now.

Not even a devilishly handsome, rugged, brutal gang leader that has focused all his determination on saving his broken girl.

No, not even Sebastian King can save me.

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I remember the way my mom used to cry. How her shoulders would heave with every sob, and how for hours afterwards, she would hiccup and let out shaky sobs.

I remember how I would hold my small hands over my ears, hoping to drown out her screams of pain.

But the part I remember most is how she would act after it all.

How she would look at me, through heavy lips and glassy eyes, and give me a smile, telling me that, "It's okay, I'm okay. He loves me."

And when I was younger, I believed her. It wasn't like I had realized what was happening.

How could a six year old know that her father was abusive? How could she know that her mother was a drug addict? How could she possibly understand how cruel and unforgiving the world really was?

These were questions I had always asked myself.

How? Why? Could I have prevented it? Did I even try?

And in the end, despite everything, I always blame myself.

Maybe I could have stopped my father. Maybe I could have helped my mother. Maybe I could have been strong, but instead I was weak. I was pathetic and worthless.

I remember thinking of ways to try to stop my father. To divert his anger away from my mother, even more a mere second at the most.

That's what true desperation is.

Shockingly enough, it wasn't words, or my physical attempts that got my father to hesitate, and even stop a few times.

In the beginning, I had always thought it was all about staying strong, to never give up, and to never break down.