A New Beginning

Chapter 3

Intro:

No one really knows the whole story. I mean sure, Mom had heard parts of it before, but the more times you tell a story, the more times you forget parts, leave out details. And trust me when i say, i have told this story more times than i have blinked.

Chapter 3: (Warning: Graphic content and violent scenes!)

One of my earliest memories as a child is learning to play the flute. I started when i was five.

I know it's young but my parents had high hopes of me becoming a professional by the time i was a teenager. And when i say this, i mean my dad did.

You see, my so called 'father' was a part of the whole music/band phase thing, and he still is.

You'd think this would benefit me, yeah, because he could help me practice and make me the best flautist in the country. But that wasn't quite the case.

Up until around age eight, my love for the instrument had already been and gone, and it wasn't coming back. But this didn't stop my so called parent from forcing me to play.

I used to be a very stubborn child. Didn't want to clean my room, didn't want to do my choars.

I absoloutley hated people being mean to Niall. I would rage the second anyone made a snarky comment aimed at him. I just couldn't handle or tollerate people being horrible in general.

As i said before, i was forced to play the flute, let me tell you how. My 'dad' liked to play a game for his own self entertainment and ammusmemt.

And it was called abuse.

At age nine i distinctly remember learning to play 'Ode to joy' on the flute. It was easy, and a happy song. But the title of the song nor the genre reflected my practice of it at home.

I guess it's an opinion whether it's bad to beat your own children or not. But even if you do think it's ok, you must have some limits, am i right?

Where should you stop?

A hand? A belt? A block of wood?

It doesn't matter

Because by age nine, i had been beaten and abused by all of these things and more.

I had been punched, slapped, stomped on, threatened, verbally and mentally abused. And not just by anyone.

But by my own Dad.

And we all know, for every game, there are rules. Let me run you through his.

One wrong note - One slap across the back of the legs/butt

Wrong timing - Hit across the face

Any crying or complaining - locked in a room with no food or any other surprise punishment.

The worst part of it all was the lying. I think i heard the sentence "where did that bruise come from" more than i heard my own name as a child.

"I fell" or "Um, i don't remember" were usually my go-to replies.

And it wasn't because i didn't want to get my dad in trouble, or i wanted to make a cover up.

But with every mark, came another reason not to tell.

"You'll only make it worse for yourself Layla." Every time i heard this i felt sick. It wasn't worth more abuse. I couldn't take it.

"Do you want me to go to jail? Because if i do, you'll have no one." I always came to the conclusion it was this, or foster care.