It's Not The First Time

♈ Part One - Jake ♈

♍-♍-♍

"YOU MURDERER!" Dad screamed as he kicked his metal toe boots into my ribs again.

I curled up in a fetal position to try and numb the pain, but of course it doesn't help at all.

He rained down as many punches as he can, as hard as he can, because this would be it for the day. Then he would start afresh when I get home from school tomorrow.

It's always the same.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU DIE INSTEAD? " he shouted, anger and hate burning in the depths of his dark indigo blue eyes, the same colour as Jake's. "You don't deserve to live, but he did."

I closed my eyes as I remembered HIM. Indigo eyes with specks of green, silky blond hair that I used to love running my hands through, the cheeky lopsided smile he would always have plastered on his lips, the pale skin that used to glow in the summer.

"I'm sorry!" I cried, the same as every other day. "I'm so sorry!"

"You killed him, YOU KILLED MY SON." he yelled, and hurled me up by the hair.

I can barely stand, but I tried anyway. My scalp burned with the effort to keep my hair in.

He 'slapped my face, hard, and I yelped in pain.

"I hate you." he snarled savagely, spittle landing on my cheeks. "I've always hated you. The day you were born, I cried mournful tears, not happy ones."

I felt my own tears well up in my eyes, as my cheek stung painfully from his slap. I tasted the blood in my mouth, and I hoped that I could cover up my bruises for tomorrow.

He threw me against the wall, and I heard my rib crack.

Thump.

I slid down it, and hot tears burned my cheeks.

Sob.

The front door opened and then closes, Dad walking out to drink away the pain in his knuckles.

Slam.

I'm all alone.

It's not the first time it happened, and I knew what to do next. The crawl to my bedroom killed me, but I'm glad I didn't pass out from the pain, like I usually do. I have homework due in tomorrow.

The door to the bathroom is open, thankfully, and I yanked myself up and held onto the sink for support. I know I shouldn't do this, but I always did after a good hour long beating.

The shine from the knife in my hands put me into a trance, and I watched with a ghost of a smile on my bruised face as I brought it up near my wrist. I already rolled my sleeve up, and so I could cut across the vein, where all the other barely healed wounds lay.

The blade sliced another line in my pale skin, and the blood trickled down to my fingers, where it dripped into the sink.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I applied more pressure to cut more deeply until I was done, and then finally, I washed the knife and hid it behind the radiator, where no one would find it except me.

The mirror reflection shows a girl with black hair to the small of her back, indigo coloured irises, split lip dry with crimson blood, and a bruised cheek in the obvious shape of a hand. Crap, I hoped concealer and foundation would cover that.

But I doubted it.

I let the blood from my wrist tangle with the running water from the tap, creating a beautiful masterpiece of art, but eventually the ruby blood ran out and the water turned crystal clear again.