Abused Angel - Child Abuse

If you actually read the story, you're going to know what it's about. She's in high school her name is Angel. I wrote it myself. Contains Swears... The first part is a dream. I can't get it to Italics... Damn.

Chapter 1

Chapter One

by: Tori1234

Chapter One

“Angel, I love you.” Her last words are stuck in my throat. I can’t even breathe. It’s cold. She’s gone. Mommy. I want her back.
Uncle Jim told me they burned her; that we’re burying her ashes today.
Everyone is wearing black. I am wearing black. Daddy wanted me to wear it.
I touch the bruise forming on my upper arm. A tear trickles down my cheek, but no one notices, because everyone is crying. But I’m not crying because of Mommy. I’m crying because he hit me.

I open my eyes. I have had the same dream for eight years. It’s a nightmare, but most nightmares are just at night.
Mine is my life.
I don’t think many people envy me. I come from a not-so-rich family with a father who gambles and drinks and, oh yeah, hits me. He didn’t use to. He used to be perfect.
My life was perfect. And then, my mother died. He started hitting me and punching me and kicking me and pushing me and shoving me. Well, to make it simpler, he started to find out new ways to painfully bruise me. Which must have been fun, for him, but it was not so fun, for me.
And then he came up with that knife idea. Ever wonder about that scar on my left thigh that says a word or that one on my lower arm or the six others on various places on my body? Well, he decided it would be a good idea to write things on me to remind me how stupid, hopelessly worthless, ugly, and how much of a slut I am and guess what? He carved those words into me.
I trace the one on my thigh that says worthless with my hand. I remember what he said when he wrote that.
“It’s all your fault that she died, you worthless idiot! You’re worthless. You could have saved her, but you’re worthless and ungrateful! You’re WORTHLESS!”
But how is it my fault? It was a car accident. I wasn’t driving. I was sitting in the back seat wondering why that lady in the blue car next to us was drinking from a bottle and driving weirdly.
If you think the bottle was apple juice, then you are hopelessly wrong.
My eyes wander around the half-empty room as I sit up. The only furniture I have is my bed, my chair and my dresser. I don’t have a rug. I don’t have curtains. I do have a clock, which says 5:30. Time to get up.
I throw my covers off my cold body and glance out the window. It’s light outside, but that’s only because it’s early September. I inch my way to the edge of the bed and stand.
I wince. My leg still hurts from last night when Dad decided to swing a baseball bat at it.

I start going to my closet. I get to choose between a black hoodie, another black hoodie, yet another black hoodie and (this one will surprise you) a gray hoodie (see, I told you it would surprise you).
Picking out a random pair of skinny jeans, the gray hoodie, and a white shirt, I change out of the long red T-shirt I slept in.
A mirror is attached to the closet door. Looking into it, I glare at my rat’s nest hair and bruised face. I look like I fell asleep during a fight with someone.
The floorboards creak as I walk on them. I turn the doorknob and pull on the door, silently. I’m trying to get out without enduring the extra pain that I would get if I were caught, since bruises hurt and I don’t want any more pain. I’ve been living half alive for eight years and I don’t want the part about me being alive to change, because, I know it couldn’t get any worse. Don’t give me all of that crap about ‘jinxing’ it, just seriously think about it. What could possibly get worse? There’s nothing else I have that the world can take away.
I am out in the long hallway, right next to Dad’s room. I close my blue eyes and see my mother sleeping on the bed in there. I miss her. If she were still here, he wouldn’t be doing this to me.
I hate ‘what if’. What if I hadn’t missed the school bus that morning so Mom didn’t have to drive me to school? What if the car had been in the other lane or we left ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later? And what if that lady hadn’t been drunk at all? And if that car had been a little slower, I wouldn’t be alive right now.
I turn into left, into the bathroom, where I open the mirror cupboard to not see my makeup. Where is my makeup!? You probably don’t think I’m the kind of girl who wears makeup, and that’s right, I’m not. But, I’m forced to, because I need to hide my marks with concealer, and almost every sophomore girl wears mascara, so when you’re trying to fit in, you don’t have much of a choice.
I clench my jaw and squat to check in the cupboard under the sink. No makeup. I’m beginning to think that I’m going to have to hide my bruises with my hair and my hood, which isn’t easy.
I stand up and turn the handle. After I wash my face, I glance at my reflection. I look halfway decent, so whatever. I don’t even bother checking the time; instead I grab my backpack from the hall floor and look through it to make sure I have pencils and all the things I need for school. They are in there, and so is my makeup bag. I roll my eyes. Now I find it.
I open the case and grab a small tube of concealer used to cover the black eye on my right side and that mark on my jaw. My forehead aches when I touch it to cover up the horrible black, blue, and purple spot.
Makeup- concealer and mascara- are some of the few things Dad provides for me. I think it’s strange how some parents refuse to let their daughter wear makeup, but my dad would rather I wore makeup than eat.
It’s still dark outside when I tiptoe down the spiral staircase, and walk into the kitchen. The only reason its clean is because Dad has his own personal slave (also known as “me”) here and threatens to whip her with his belt if she doesn’t clean the whole house, just so it can get dirty again every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, when Dad brings all of his drinking buddies that don’t care about using children as slaves, and hosts a party.
I have my black backpack, containing all my stuff- money, makeup, just in case it smudges, or I have PE today (One word: Showers), and pencils and folders. Tomorrow, I’ll have homework and books to carry, too.
I turn on the stove and throw a couple eggs on a pan. I shake salt on it and scramble the eggs. I take them off, and throw on bacon. After a couple minutes, I take the bacon off, too. I place all the food on a plate and yell, “Dad, I’m leaving!”
It smells so good, but I know I can’t have any. Dad didn’t buy this food for me. I buy my own food, from a job I have at 4 o’clock on Wednesdays at a convenience store downtown. I’ll have to settle for a granola bar.
I bite into it while I turn around, about to go out the door, but my eyes catch sight of my mom’s picture, that’s sitting on top of the fireplace. It was taken eight years ago, when I had a loving family. Eight years ago, I was seven. Eight years ago, there was a car crash. Eight years ago, I lost my mom.
The picture shows a beautiful blond haired, blue-eyed woman with clear, flawless, light skin and I look like a younger version of that woman, except my skin is actually bruised and scarred, under the concealer, while that woman’s skin is completely flawless. She’s beautiful.
“Mom, I miss you so bad. “ I say, closing my eyes. I’m not crying. I haven’t cried since I lost my last friend, Michaela, when I was twelve. And I can’t give Dad that feeling of power you get when you realize you can make someone cry.
I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and I take them as my cue to leave.
And I do. I sprint as fast as I possibly can. I don’t deserve this! Nobody does. Nobody. I hate this. Was this all I was born for?
I realize suddenly that I’m already passing the cemetery. I desperately want to visit Mom’s grave.
I don’t want to sink to his level, but I want to punch someone. I want to punch someone hard. I want to get rid of that dreadful fear of going home at the end of the day.
I want to fight him back, but I know that if I even opened my mouth to argue with him, Dad would probably cut my tongue off.
I pry my eyes from the graves, where I was searching for Mom’s. I know its there somewhere, but I haven’t been there in years and don’t know when the next time I will go there will be. Probably never, if this keeps going on.
I focus on getting to school. Cross the street. Turn the corner. I don’t know what school is to me; a sanctuary, where I am safe or a prison that always keeps close watch, where I have to be extra careful, because I don’t want them to find out what I’m hiding.
I take a couple more strides, before slowing down to read the sign, “Welcome, freshmen.”
I’m not a freshman, I’m a sophomore, but I do notice all the unfamiliar upperclassmen.
I slow down to a normal walk as I push my way through the freshmen, but a dumb cheerleader named Nikki grabs my hood and pulls it down, revealing my rat’s nest of hair that I haven’t brushed for three days.
“Did a animal climb on your head and die, or is that hair?”
“Is that a dog or is that your face?”
I walk away. I don’t want to be part of a catfight the first day of school and get detention, because I don’t want to get hurt, and NOT from Nikki.
As usual, Nikki’s posse whispers loud enough for me to hear.
“Being mean to Nikki is so not kewl.” You’d think, at least, she’d be able to pronounce thing right, but no, she apparently, can’t say cool, instead of kewl.
“ She thinks she’s so cool.” At least she says things right, even if what she’s saying isn’t true.
“Such a Daddy’s Girl.” I froze. Did they even know how much that hurt?
Did they even know how untrue that is? I clench my fists and say “whatever” loud enough for them to hear. But if they saw my face- they would never let me see the end of it.
I follow the crowd into the huge gym, where there are lines, divided up by last name, to give us our schedules. ABCD is the first line, and I stand at the back of it, because my name is Angel Black.
I feel like I’m waiting forever. I’m not very patient, because I’ve never had to wait for very much in my life. Dad believes in hitting me until his anger is gone, and it doesn’t take him very long to get angry. I stare at the closest basketball hoop. My eyes wander around the gym, recognising people.
I step forward, subconsciously, because the person in front of me stepped forward. That person’s name is Zach Carter, a nice and smart guy, and Nikki thinks he’s a nerd. Well, I guess he is. I mean, his nose is always deep in a book, and he’s so ahead of everyone that he should really be a junior already. He’s holding a book up to his face, and reading it, while waiting in line.
I shift my weight and cough. I’m bored.
Glancing in front of him, there’s a girl I’ve never seen before. I can’t say she’s strange, because of me, but she’s like the definition of different. Her hair- her hair is dark greenish\turquoise, except the tips are a fiery red, and it’s ruler straight, like she ironed into down on her back. She’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt with black paint stains and Sharpie all over it. Tight red Capri’s with marker scribbles and doodles literally all over them like she had taught an art lesson on how to decorate plain pants. That girl wore neon yellow boots with bright red broken hearts and crossed out peace signs. Okay… definitely strange. I thought color-lovers were supposed to like peace? Like, hippies?
I have definitely never met anyone like her before, but I figure the art teacher will love her. To say the least, Miss Colorful is… well, colorful.
She’s my opposite, I guess, but I haven’t seen her face yet. She’s taller than me, and I’m not short, so I’m wondering whether she’s a freshman or just new. I’m pondering over this, when we move up a bunch of spaces, so Miss Colorful is first in line. I stare at the ground, waiting to move up, but I don’t and another minute passes. My forehead itches. I scratch my forehead, and then feel pain because of my bruise.
My sleeve slides up, revealing telltale scars. I quickly put my hand to my side again, hoping against hope that no one had seen. I take a deep breath and look around. No one’s staring, so probably no one had. I sigh loudly with relief.
Zach turns around and looks at me. I flash him an apology, something I normally don’t do, but I don’t care. I just want this day to end, and for me to go home, and… there’s no point. I don’t like it anywhere. At home, I just want to go to school; at school, I just want to be home.
I decide to see what’s taking so long. Miss Colorful is talking to Mrs. Fitzgerald.
And she’s talking so fast that I can’t understand anything she’s saying.
Truth be told, I don’t even think Mrs. Fitzgerald understands her, and she knows 4 languages.
Eventually, she needs to breathe, so she stops talking. And Mrs. Fitzgerald nods and gives Miss Colorful a schedule.
Miss Colorful turns around and I finally get a good look at her face. Her skin is tan and her eyes are ocean blue. She looks like she could be my twin, if her hair turned out to be blond like mine.
She glances at everyone in line until her eyes finally settle on me. She’s walking towards me, when I get interrupted by Mrs. Fitzgerald saying, “HI, honey,” in that really annoying high-pitched voice of hers.
I sigh and face her. “HI, Mrs. Fitz.” Everyone calls her that.
“Why, hello, Angel. You’re Angel Black, right? Okay… here we go.” She searches through a stack of schedules for mine and hands it to me.
I’m about to thank her and leave for my locker when she says, “Oh, Angel?”
I eye her suspiciously. I have a feeling I won’t like what she’s about to ask me to do.
“Can you show Thalia around? She’s new. “ Mrs. Fitzgerald points at Miss colorful.
“Sure,” I blurt, but right when I say it, I know that I’m going to regret it, because I don’t want friends. Friends pry into your personal life and pretty soon, you don’t have any secrets left.
And when you have a big, dark, ugly secret, it’s pretty cliché.

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