Perfectly Wrong || Shawn M.

Part 23

"Leila." Shawn said softly, huddled up with me under the piles of plush blankets we were cuddling under.

"Yeah?" I asked, placing my head on the side on his shoulder.

"Don't get mad at me for asking this." Shawn stated, not moving at all. I knew just by his tone that he was being serious, which worried my.

"Okay..." I said, lifting my head off of his shoulder to get a good look of his side profile.

"Uh, don't your parents live around here?" Shawn asked, looking down as if it shamed him to say that.

I didn't know how to respond. They do live around here and he knew it, but we haven't talked about my parents since the first week we met. I had three options: respond civilly, freak out on him for mentioning my parents, or not say anything. I thought about the consequences of all of the possible routes.

"Yeah. Why?" I said. He bit his lip for a second before speaking.

"Have you seen them since you moved?"

"No."

"I'm not trying to control your life or anything, but maybe you should try to visit them." Shawn suggested.

I looked away from him. As much I didn't want to admit it, he was 100% right. I should've checked up on my parents a long time ago, but I didn't. I wasn't proud of it, but I was so much happier without them in my life. I just felt cornered whenever they were around. and ever since I moved, I felt like I was finally the one in control.

"Why? They ruined me. Why would I go back?" I protested softly.

"Because they're your parents, Leila. They love you no matter how much they don't or don't act like it." Shawn said.

I know I shouldn't of felt mad at him. He was trying to help me as much as he could. I don't know why I couldn't of been appreciative instead of a brat. But, now that I had experienced what a good home environment was like, I couldn't help but to be mad at them for all that they put me through.

"Tell me that again when your parents start fucking abusing you." I spat, scooting a few centimeters away from Shawn.

"They... abused you?" Shawn asked, his voice hesitant and shaky. I could tell that he didn't want to ask, but his curiousness got the best of him.

I didn't say anything.

I had a flashback to the time when I was in eight grade. I was sitting in my room studying (by studying I meant sketching what I hoped would become a picture of the sky) late at night while parents were fighting noisily downstairs. At that point, I had learned to simply block out all the horrific sounds that were coming from the living room. I heard footsteps pounding on the stairs. I assumed that they would storm right past my room like they always did. But instead, by door was flung open, hitting the wall with a sickening crack. I turned around to see my mom, furious as ever.

She asked what I was doing, and after no response, she stomped over to figure out herself. When she saw that I wasn't working on schoolwork, she took the paper, made sure I was watching her, and ripped it in half. The sound of paper ripping soon became something that I would be deathly afraid of forever. After destroying what I had been working on for the past two hours, she grabbed me by the hair and yanked me off of my chair. She proceeded to kick me once I was down on the floor, over and over again as I cried for her to stop.

She eventually did, cursing me out as slammed the door to my room. A few minutes later, I guess my dad heard me crying. He marched into my room and just when I thought he was going to do the same thing as my mom did to me, he picked my body off the floor and lifted me onto my bed. He cleaned up the few places I was bleeding and apologized for what mom had done. He tucked me in and said goodnight to me, turning the lights off and shutting the door gently. Once he was gone, I made sure to lock it in case my mom felt like taking her anger out on me again.