Haven's Knight (Sample of Published Book)

Chapter 1 - Part 1

Haven

I touched my red, stinging cheek and stared up at Grant, my stepfather. At over six feet tall, he towered over my small frame. My face hurt so badly, but I knew there wouldn't be a bruise. He had learned early on that there was less chance of bruising if he hit me with an open hand.

He raised his hand again, so I prepared myself for another hit. However, this time he fisted his hand and punched me in the stomach. Winded, I dropped to the kitchen floor as pain exploded where his fist connected. I squeezed my eyes closed as a wave of pain gripped me. On any area of my body that was covered by clothing, he would hit hard enough to leave bruises.

I didn't try to defend myself against the kick that came next. It was pointless, because if I tried to stop him, he would hit me harder. Pain erupted in my stomach again when his foot connected with me. Satisfied with the punishment he had given me, he glared at me before taking a swig of his beer. He spun around on his heels and walked out of the kitchen.

Instantly, relief flooded through me. It was over, for the moment. I whimpered from the intense pain, but I didn't cry. No matter how bad the beating was, I never cried. Even when he had broken my arm when I was twelve, I hadn't shed a tear. I never cried. It was my way to keep that part of me hidden. I hid it so deep inside so that no matter what happened to my body on the outside, I was still okay on the inside. If I was okay on the inside, I could carry on.

When they'd taken me to the hospital with a broken arm the doctors had asked Grant questions, and he'd realized there would be less scrutiny if I didn't make regular trips to the hospital. Since then, he never hit me hard enough to leave me with an injury that would entail such a trip.

I lay on the dirty tiles of the kitchen floor, trying to breathe through the pain. I waited until I could sit up without the pain flaring up. I didn't know what I'd done to set him off this time. Most of the time, just breathing was enough to offend him.

Some days, I felt like his personal walking-and-talking punching bag. I was an object he could hit without any repercussions to ease his anger and frustration. I was never good enough or quiet enough to suit him.

Up until the age of ten, I remembered being a happy and carefree child. My mom and dad had loved me, and I'd felt safe. That had all changed drastically the day my dad died. He had died suddenly from an aneurysm, and that was the moment that changed my life forever.

My mother had disintegrated under the weight of her grief. Alcohol became her coping mechanism, and a way for her to numb the pain. From that moment on, I was just a reminder of what she had lost, and who she'd have to live without. All the love she had for me had evaporated, and all that remained was indifference. In a way, I had lost both my parents that day.

It shouldn't have been that way. A mother was supposed to love her child unconditionally, but mine hadn't. I could have coped with her indifference, but then she'd met Grant only months after my father's death. At first, I had hoped that he would help heal my broken family, but that hope had disappeared the first time he'd hit me. Over time, the hits had gradually gotten worse with every incident, and now I expected it.

Finally, I took a deep breath and slowly tried to stand up. I wanted to stay where I was on the floor until the pain eased—I couldn't risk the chance that Grant would come back. My legs wobbled, but held when I stood upright. I kept my arms firmly wrapped around my aching stomach while I walked slowly out of the kitchen.

Hesitantly, I did a quick scan of the tiny living room for Grant. The only thing there was the cigarette-burned, alcohol-stained two-seater couch that faced a bare wall. The room was empty of all other furnishings, because we couldn't even afford a TV. I bit down on my lip as the pain in my stomach shot through my body. Even the walls were an off-white color that looked dirty.

By the time I made it to my small bedroom I was in agony. I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it, sighing with relief. Grant rarely invaded the sanctuary of my bedroom to punish me. It terrified me that one day he might move on to other ways to punish me. Physically hurting me was one thing, but if he tried to do something worse, it would break me.

I'd survived seven years of this, and I just had one year left in high school. After I graduated, I would have my high-school diploma, and then I could escape. I held onto the hope that soon I would be free.

I shuffled to my bed, which was just a single mattress on the floor that was pushed up against the wall. The sheet that covered the mattress was a dull-gray color, though it had once been white. I lay down on the lumpy mattress, a groan escaping my lips from the pain. I reached down and pulled the medium-sized blanket, which had been folded at the foot of my bed, over me. I didn't have much, but I made do.

The light-blue walls of my room did nothing to lighten the heaviness inside of me. I watched as my old, tattered curtains moved with the slight whisper of wind through my window.

There was no way I could tell anyone what was happening to me. Grant told me many times that he would kill me if I ever told anyone what was going on. There was no doubt in my mind that he meant what he'd said, so I kept my mouth shut.

We had just moved to a new town a couple of weeks ago. Some of the teachers at the previous school I had attended had become suspicious about what was happening to me at home. It would only have been a matter of time before their suspicions were confirmed. Then social services would have been called in.

Tomorrow, I was starting my senior year at a new school. It was not like anyone from my old school was going to miss me anyway. I never made any friends because I kept to myself. It was just easier that way. I didn't have to hide anything if I didn't make friends.

It was dark, and I wasn't sure what time it was, but I was tired. I had spent most of the weekend trying to clean the tiny two-bedroom flat. My mom had no ambition, and her sole purpose in life was the ease her pain with bottles of cheap alcohol, so she didn't work. She spent most of her time at home, drunk. Grant was the only provider, and he didn't make much working as a mechanic. When he wasn't working, he was with my mom, drinking. The only place we were able to afford had been in the seedy part of town. The apartment was small, but at least it was a roof over our heads.

Despite the pain throbbing in my stomach, I pulled the blanket up to my chin. I closed my eyes and quickly drifted off to sleep. I didn't have an alarm clock or a phone to set an alarm on, but somehow my body had an internal alarm, so I was wide awake by six the next morning.

The pain in my stomach was still aching when I woke. My tummy rumbled. I decided to grab something to eat on my way out.   

I didn't waste any time getting ready for school. Quickly, I pulled a brush through my shoulder-length dark hair. My eyes were the same shade of brown. My wardrobe was limited, but I found a clean pair of faded blue jeans and a shirt. I pushed my feet into my shoes. Everything I wore was secondhand and looked well-worn, but I tried not to let it bug me.