Becoming Sonny Again

Life as it is

Hey guys. So, im writing this story from a different account, as my other one deals with fanfiction. Ive had this in my head for a while now, and ive been bouncing about ideas and such. Comment and let me know if you want me to continue. Ive also got to say that this contains physical abuse, which I know is illegal. So its a very sensitive topic. Said abuse only really happens in this chapter, but there may be flashbacks in future ones. Just a word of warning for you there. So obviously, this chapter/story is quite dark, but it does get better for her, i promise!

Thanks for reading!

Oh, and I should also say that this story was inspired by the song Safe and Sound. The lyrics don't fit in my mind, but we'll see :)

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Closing the door behind me, I sighed in relief. No one was in, as usual. They'd all left to go and get pissed somewhere else. Thank God for that. When they stayed here, he would get to me all the time, more so than usual. It had happened last Saturday, and it was still showing.

I caught sight of myself in a tiny broken mirror, hanging crookedly on the yellow smoke-stained wall, just above the grimy mantelpiece. The crack split the small square into uneven thirds, reflecting at slightly differing angles. My brown hair hung loosely, in slight curls to my waist. It was getting greasy from not washing it in a few days, and the usual natural highlights were dulled from the dirtiness. My eyes were the usual mixture. Green, blue, grey and yellow. No one could actually define what colour they were, but I liked them. My eyes had bags under them from my random sleeping hours. My nose was slightly crooked, from being broken last year. Yesterday's bruising was still pulsing painfully, and had spread a sickly-brown patch across my cheek. There were older bruises, fading into the usual yellow colour. They didn't hurt so much, but bloomed across all of my skin, covering my freckles.

The tiny apartment was littered with cans of beer and crisp packets among other things. The walls and carpets stunk of smoke, stained yellow with the fumes. The main room was ruined. The stuffing was spilling out of our old worn couch, the windows thick and marred with grime that no one had bothered to clean. I'm sure that it could now be scraped off. The curtains were disgusting, and I think I could even see little bugs crawling about the room, revelling in the filth. Disgusting. But this was home.

After stuffing all of the cans into a black bin bag, I started to work on the kitchen. The fridge was a no-go area. Food moulded and blackened after being abandoned months ago. The sink was full of dishes that hadn't been cleaned in a few days. I started to work on them, scraping the dirt off with a dingy scrubber that had hardened with disuse.

By two a.m, the flat was in its usual state of dirtiness. Some stains just couldn't be removed. It was finally time for bed.

I opened the door, pulling it shut hard behind me. I was in the box room, the one used for storage. I flipped on the lamp, watching it flicker as usual. The wire was faulty, but no one had ever even thought of getting it fixed. It illuminated my tiny bedroom. The walls were green, the wallpaper peeling, with damp in the corners. There was no carpet, just the bare floorboards. They hadn't done anything to my room my entire life. It had always been this way. Claustrophobic. No window. The room was about two meters in length. The awful walls separated by a meter gap, the ceiling and floor double that. I dropped to my knees, rolling up my too-big jogging trousers and the sleeves on my t-shirt. I hadn't changed clothes in a week, since the washing machine had broken. These were the only clothes I owned, besides my school uniform. Cast-offs from one of his girlfriends. I could never remember exactly which one.

I laid down, pulling up my quilt and putting the lumpy pillow under my head. My cover consisted of an old curtain that he'd ripped in his drunken rage a few years ago. I'd stolen the pillow from the cupboard as soon as I'd been tall enough to open it. There was no mattress, and I struggled to adjust myself to the floorboards.

My name is Alison Smith. I live in an apartment in the rundown end of Glasgow, Scotland, with my father. He's always drunk, and I'm left to fend for myself. I get food whenever I can, by saving up money that I find lying around. My ribs and most bones are visible under my dirty skin. It's usually passed off as me having an eating disorder. It's a common stereotype in modern society, that lots of girls have something along the lines of anorexia or bulimia. Nobody questions it. I clean. That's pretty much all I ever get to do in this place, when I'm not doing homework or reading a book I managed to get from the library at school. My father usually takes them off of me, ripping them to shreds. It reminds him of confetti, and he's drinking within the next ten minutes. I'm not entirely sure if he's ever sober.

The tears leak over. I'm strong. I have to be, living in this environment, but it doesn't stop me from crying. Living in this flat for so long, you kinda get used to it. The abuse, physical or verbal, but never sexual. I dont think he's stupid enough, or horrible enough, to hurt me in that way. The dirt, the drunkenness. Social services have been numerous times, but somehow, he knows, and he always manages to pass it off as clumsiness. Always manages to pass off the state of the flat as a lack of money. He always manages to make me prove it too. Because he'll take away my stationary if I don't. He'll take away my school stuff if I don't trip up, or fall. And I can't let him. Getting good scores in school will get me into a decent college, and if I graduate from said college, I can finally get away from him.

I close my eyes, letting sleep take me away from my nightmare, taking me to my dreams. The only place I'm safe. I always wake up from my dreams crying.

It could have been hours or minutes later, but a crash and a loud, angry voice alert me that he's here. Years of punishment gets me out of bed and into the main room in seconds. He always expects me to be here.

"Alison!" He half-slurs, half-shouts. I flinch. He's angry tonight. Worse than usual. Someone must have beaten him during cards. I allow myself a small smile at that, but I'm quick to feel the slap. The sound seemed to fill the room, ringing in my ears and blocking out everything else. The recent tears fall again as the split second of numbness fades, leaving me with the pain. I back away, trying to escape his merciless black eyes, the scar cutting down his face looks more prominent than ever, and more frightening. He follows, surprisingly steady despite the fact that he reeks of drugs and alcohol.

"Please," I whimper. "Please, don't." I'm as helpless as a baby against my father. He's easily three times my size and weight. And he can see that. But it doesn't stop him. He quickly descends on me, lashing out and hurting every part of my body until all I can feel is the pain. The pain is me. It's all I know. All I feel.

After an hour of endless pain, I'm left alone, broken on the floor besides the couch. This time was worse than usual. He must have lost dreadfully.

The pain is all I can feel. All I can think about. My right leg is broken, I'm sure of it. The sickening snap is replaying in my mind. Over and over. There's blood leaking from numerous cuts, more worryingly from one on my forehead. The redness runs into my eyes, making visibility impossible. I try to move my hand to wipe it away, but instead feel a flashing pain, and I moan. I quickly stifle it, fearing that he'll return to finish me off.

In time, the pain begins to fade. My mind starts to go fuzzy, my vision blurring. The tears have stopped. The blood seems to have too, drying on my skin. The irony smell is sickening, and I know that there is too much. Far too much outside of my body. Somewhere in my mind, I seem to know that this is the end for me, and I'm happy. I smile, knowing that I'll never have to see my father again. Never have to see the bullies again. I close my eyes, letting sleep overpower me for the second time that night, but I know that I won't wake.

Then there's a sudden light in my eyes, and I screw them up tighter. If this is heaven, it sure hurts. There are distorted sounds, some loud, some quiet. Yelling in the background. I realise that they're voices. There are sounds of struggling.

There are two or three voices near me, soft and comforting. I feel pressure on my wrist, my forehead and various other parts. There's a warmer touch on my right hand that stays, and I'm grateful for it. The warmth is comforting.

I open my eyes slightly, trying to see where I am. The world is disorientating, and all I can see is a person. Whoever they are is blurred, so that only the eye colour registers.

Brown. Chocolate. They ask me questions.

I attempt a smile, feeling myself lift from the ground. Maybe this is it? "Thank you," I croak out, hoping that I've actually spoken.

Then there was nothing but blackness.