A/N - I've never really written about personal life so I tried to make this as realistic as I could
Also: All of the events in this story are purely fictional and some scenes are quite graphic; I know there are people who have experienced similar things to in this story, and this is to show how you can find your own strength.
If you have experienced something similar, find your voice. There are helplines and all kinds of support which I'll link you to; you're not here on your own.
http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/post/21961172409/accepting-help-is-brave-hotlinescrisis-lines
(or just search google)
Love, Leanne.
Enjoy x
Rewritten: 04/04/14
**Olivia's POV**
I pulled my knees up to my chest, protecting myself as much as I could.
He was getting closer.
"P-please, Dad. Don't do this." I pleaded, cowering in the corner.
The fear which cloaked my mind, my body, was tearing me apart. I took a hasty step backwards, measuring my options.
"Come on now, Liv." He smirked, advancing towards me.
The cruel look in his eyes overpowered the once kindly look my father gave me. This man infront of me...this man, I no longer knew.
I crawled backwards, feeling the cold wall push against my back. It was soothing against my burning flesh; like water to a fever.
My father, who no longer deserved that title, was grinning at me; watching my every move with the eyes of a vulture.
I needed to make an escape, I thought, looking at the red scars on my right arm which I usually covered up with a jumper. My pale skin was highlighted with purple bruises, a tell tale of my wasted youth.
A brief thought flickered in my mind. Something I'd read or heard somewhere in the past.
'Fight your inner demons. You dictate the quality of your life and how you live it; don't shroud yourself in the darkness.'
I vaguely recalled the quote from a book I'd picked up by mistake one time in the library. It was a little known book, but had clearly made a lasting impact on me.
I blinked, and was back to reality in a flash. This was now.
He was close enough now, and in this close proximity I could smell the foul stench of beer oozing off him. Alcohol did this to you; bled into your veins until you were rid from all sense. Hate had never been a word in my vocabulary, until now.
My skin was like ice and I trembled, weighing up my chances of escaping. What were the odds of a feeble 18 year old escaping the hold of her violent, undeterred father?
I quickly got up to run away but my Dad was too fast, his strength undoubtedly mighty against mine - he pulled my arm and swung me round, slapping my face roughly before throwing me against the wall.
An agonising pain shot through my body, and I hoped for one moment that it was an accident. But it never was.
I bit my lip and my eyes flickered shut, trying to avoid the immense pain eating away at me; if I showed any fear, he'd hurt me more.
The pain was burning my skin and I was fighting the fatigue which was tiring out my legs and slowly rising to my head.
I've endured it for such a long time. It was never this bad in the start, I mean, I was young, 11; it begun as verbal abuse, and grew into something much darker over the years. I was now 18, though physically I looked older and mentally felt like a small, vulnerable child.
