island ☆ g.d.

28. ouch

Y/n POV
The thundering of my mother's footsteps is all I can hear other than my heartbeat. I know that she heard me talking, but I don't know what she was going to do because of it.

Sooner or later, the heavy footsteps stop, and my bedroom door flies open. The doorknob leaves a dent in my wall as it slams against it. My mom steps in, smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke. She's drunk.

This is going to hurt.

She always finds another reason to hurt me when she's drunk. "You forgot to wash the dishes," "you are the reason this family is broken," or even "you're annoying."

I brace myself against the soft pillows of my bed, watching my mom coming closer to me. I hold my breath as she says the reason to hurt me that I hate most.

"You're talking to the boy that ruined everything."

She points at me, her fingernail a sharp point so she can scratch me whenever she wants. The look of disgust on her face is telling me that I'm really going to get hurt tonight.

Trying to look calm, I grab my phone from under the covers. I type in what I think is 9-1-1 without looking down at it. I don't press the call button yet. There's a chance that I'll need it later.

My mom charges at me and her hands lay on my legs, pulling me off of my bed while leaving scratches that will scar me. I blink back tears just as she brings her open hand to my face, bringing more.

I try to stand upright before she pushes me down and steps on my stomach. Pain blossoms where she put her weight. Breathing heavily, I look for my phone. Its still under the sheets of my bed, which is far away. I won't make it there.

Me turning around gives my mother the chance to slap me once again, this time with her nails on my face. I let myself take whispers of air into my lungs, wheezing from the pain.

This isn't the worst part, Y/n, toughen up.

My jaw clenches as her fist flies to meet my cheek once again. This time, I grab a pillow and block the punch. She gets madder at me. I try to come up with an excuse as fast as possible.

"You know I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, and they're going to see all of this. Why are you hurting me today?"

Her cruel smile drifts into a drunken frown. "You deserve to be hurt."

"For what?" I hiss as I gasp for more air to enter my lungs.

"You are the reason Sydney left me. My favorite child left this house to hurt you, and she never came back"

Ouch. Wait..

"Hold on, what? She came to hurt me?" I scream as I ask this question, making my mother step back.

"Yes. This time, I wasn't letting you leave my house to go to LA."

I finally stand up on my one leg, my height taller than hers. I look down on her as I point to the door.

"Get. Out." My voice is dripping with venom.

"You can't make me, can you?" My mom laughs at me, the alcohol getting to her.

"Try me."

I use all of my strength to slam my hand into her face, using all of the knowledge that multiple YouTube videos have been giving me for years. I've been wanting to fight back for a while.

Keep your hand open and turn it into a fist when it's close to the face for speed. Look the other person in the eyes when you're punching them so they are more intimidated by you. Don't just use your arms to punch- use all of your body weight.

She stumbles to the ground as my fist collided with her jaw. I jump towards her, making her scramble to the door in attempt to escape. I slam it in her face, locking it as the noise echoes through the house.

Tears fall down my face as I finally let my pain get to me. I collapse onto my bed, staring at my ceiling. The tally's that I put there are still vibrant. Tally's for the days that I felt the most hurt. The days when I didn't want to go on. 27 in total. There could have been another one if I didn't do what I did today.

I look at the uneven lines of the pencil that I used to draw them. I used pencil so my mom wouldn't see them. She never did.

Every time I drew a line, it was different. One day it would be wavy because my arm was in pain and I couldn't hold it straight. Another time, it would be completely straight because I would spend hours on it to make it look perfect. I wanted one ounce of a win in my life, and drawing that perfect line was the win.

One time, I was in so much pain that I couldn't even draw a line. I grabbed my pencil, point facing toward the ceiling, and used all the strength that I had to push it through. There's still that small hole in the white surface of the ceiling.

My mom sent my sister so that she could hurt me. She made sure that I would never be able to walk again. Because of her and Sydney, my future is almost ruined. Sure, I'm a YouTuber. But do I really think that it's going to last for a full career? No.

I wanted to be a surgeon. The online schools that I have been taking, the endless amount of essays that I have been doing were all so that I could get into medical schools and pursue my dreams. Now? I can't stand up, let alone for a three-hour surgery.

I think about what could have been before my phone rings. If my mom hers this ringtone right now, I'm dead.

I check the caller ID. My doctor from the hospital in LA. I quickly answer.

"Hello?" Confusion fills my mind.

"Miss y/l/n. This is Doctor Avery, from Faith North Hospital in Los Angeles." The man on the phone sounds calm.

"Okay. What are you calling for?" Is there something wrong with me?

"A team of doctors and I might have found a way for you to walk again."

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────