I hurried downstairs, shoving a piece of toast in my mouth as I exited our much-too-big house, climbing into my Toyota Camry. We had plenty of money, but I just didn’t feel the need to flash it. As I drove down the road, I was distracted by my recent dream and I made a wrong turn. I was supposed to turn at the next light, but I turned too early, and ended up on Cambridge Drive.
Where I used to live with Dad.
My door and window were locked, and I was pressed against the door of my bathroom, my head between my knees. I ached all over, from the soreness on my cheek, to the welts on my back, to the dark bruises around my neck. My father pounded on my bedroom door, screaming things like “Let me in, you slut.” I was thirteen, and the prospect of sex had seemed so foreign.
Tears poured down my face as I heard the noise of wood creaking, then a distinct smashing sound was heard. Thunderous footsteps plowed across my room, then there was a loud pounding at the locked bathroom door.
Uh oh.
I slammed on the brakes just in time to stop myself from hitting a dog bounding across the street. I pulled over to the side of the road, my arms shaking, as I leaned my head against the steering wheel, trying to get my breathing under control. Mom and Dad had gotten divorced when I was seven. Dad had won custody, somehow. The abuse started not even a year later, and ended one night when I was thirteen. He had tried to kill me, so I had called the cops.
It had been five years, and I had managed to get my flashbacks under control, until Spencer started hitting me. That triggered a relapse, of sorts. I tore up my skin with blades, I even tried to commit, but Spencer found me and punished me for “doing his job.”
I took a few deep breaths, wiping surprisingly sneaky tears from my cheeks. I checked my reflection in the mirror to make sure I wasn’t a total wreck, and continued down the road, just staring straight ahead. I tensed as I passed our old house, fighting back flashbacks.
Two men who were supposed to love and support me had done the exact opposite.
I told myself they were trying to help me.
I told myself I deserved it.
I told myself that maybe I had done so much wrong in my life, and the universe was finallypaying me back.
I told myself that it was my fault.
Realistic Fiction
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This was really powerful. Great writing.
Your scenes are vivid and well written – even if it is sad content to read about. I said this in my last comment on chapter 1 – I really enjoy getting into the narrator’s head and seeing her inner battle with herself. I think this is a very realistic portrayal of someone who is the victim of abuse. I am excited to read more from you; I am enjoying this story so far!