I Was Never Loved

Okay just a little heads up: the first chapter is basically to help you get some background on the main character. It actually helps in understanding some of the later stuff. It's a good story so I'm asking that you guys give it a chance. Comment if possible please :)

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Chapter 1

From a young age I'd always found myself asking the question 'Why doesn't mommy like me?'.

There were times I would hide behind her door, wishing to catch even a note of her voice and I would hear her telling daddy that she wished I was never born; that she wished for a son and got me, a wretched piece of shit instead. At the time, I couldn't understand. There was nothing wrong with having a little girl; I fancied myself the perfect child. There wasn't a moment when I didn't do what I was told--usually for fear she may lash out--and I was always eager to please. The problem with my mother was that she never appreciated a thing I did and she never hesitated to show the ill-feelings she held toward me.

The bruises I have can attest to that.

At the very beginning, she used to pretend she was happy to have me but I don't have much memory of that anymore. When I was still only a baby she would dress me up in the prettiest of dresses and show me off to anyone she had a mind to. Then I turned two. That was when I learned what getting stitches felt like. I touched Mother's hat; a large lavender one with pale purple ruffles and a large bow near the front. At the time it had been the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. Though I'm sure my mother agreed with my then child-like impressions, she wasn't impressed with snot stained hands on her favourite head wear. All I remember after the lovely hat was a hot curling iron thrown at me. Without a doubt, it was my fault; I had no right to touch the hat. At least that's what Mother said.

At the age of three, I got a little brother. He was the answer to Mother's prayers and the start of my unbearable nightmare. Matthew quickly became the glory child; the one my mother would sell her soul to see smile even once a day and I became the nuisance she was still forced to feed, clothe and shelter.

Being the fast learner that I am, I should have known nothing I ever did was right but it never put an end to my childhood enthusiasm or my desire to be helpful. Once, when I was six, I came home from school to find Mother in an exceedingly horrid mood. It was the alcohol; it made her into a demon. Knowing how violent she had a tendency to become, I took Matt and hid in the closet so we wouldn't get in her way. My little brother never understood the gesture and the woman certainly didn't appreciate it. Mother became frantic when she couldn't find her son and when she did finally find us in the closet she grabbed me by my hair and yanked me effortlessly from my little spot of refuge. By now I knew what would be coming next but not even that could prepare me for the moment she slammed me into the wall. A sharp pain reverberated throughout my entire being, starting at my back and jolting through the rest of my tiny frame.

"So you're trying to steal my baby, are you?!"

"No mommy, I-" She gripped me by my hair again, this time slamming my head directly into the solid concrete that was the wall. A stream of warm, red liquid ran down my face but I dared not cry knowing full well she would do it again if I made even a peep. You'd think she would be content with drawing blood--I certainly did--but then my brother started crying. Naturally, Mother blamed that on me as well. I felt her grip me firmly by my left arm right before she dragged me over to the staircase and cast me down.

"How dare you make your brother cry?!" She shouted from the top. I curled up at the foot of the stairs then and allowed myself to cry.

By now my head was throbbing and I was beginning to feel light headed.

I remember there was a knock at the door. Mother swept by me at the bottom of the stairs to answer it. It was our neighbor. She had heard me screaming and had come to investigate. She looked pass my mother and saw me bleeding on the floor. I don't remember much of what she said but she sounded as frantic as Mother had earlier and suggested I be taken to the hospital.

"No, she'll be fine. I have some medical experience; I'll take care of it." The moment she slammed the door shut, I could see what I thought at the time was my death approaching. Mother went into the next room and came back with a standard staple gun. "That nosy neighbor of ours thinks I should take you to the hospital to get your wound stitched. I happen to know a thing or two about how that sort of thing works. Doctors can use stitches or staples. Now I personally prefer staples, how's about you?" She asked with that psychotic smirk of hers as she stepped closer.

Hardly able to feel my legs--or any other part of me for that matter--I sat shivering as I waited for her to grab me. When she did, she held my face and plastered staples into the wound. I cried out then, begging her to stop but the more I did was the faster she squeezed the clicker on the gun originally meant for stationery work. It took some hours but when I was finally taken to the hospital the doctors were told that I was playing with the stapler after being warned not to. For her part, my mother cried as needed, completely beyond herself with grief and ever so relieved they would be able to help me. The story worked perfectly and no one was suspicious; no one but our neighbor, for all the good that would do me.

By the time I was ten I knew that there was nothing but hatred in Mother's heart for me despite her overwhelming adoration for her miracle child. She loved Matt. "He is the overachiever." Mom would say. "And you're the idiot I'm forced to feed. When are you going to do something useful? When are you going to make me proud? Christ, can't you do anything right?"

Once, she told me that I should go sell my body. That way I could actually be of some worth to her, financially speaking. It wasn't to say she was wrong; our family could have used the extra funds. Who knows, it might have made her more tolerable.

There were a few times I considered removing myself from the equation but I could never actually go through with it. Most ten year olds are not blessed with what I had then considered to be the courage to go through with such an act.

One evening after I'd gotten through the day's homework, I found myself watching TV when Matt came and change the channel. In the moment, I couldn't think of anything that would have made me angrier. It wasn't fair he always got the television, even when I managed to catch it first. I grabbed the remote, forgetting, for the time being my standings in this household. He jumped at me and began hitting with everything in his marginally smaller arms. I shoved him off. Just then Mother flew into the room, as if a sixth sense--or his screaming--alerted her to her son's sudden distress. She grabbed my shirt and yanked me up.

"Bitch, what do you think you're doing to my son?!"

"But mommy I had the TV-" She slapped me hard across the face.

"Don't back talk me!" She bellowed as she shoved me away from her. It wasn't over, it never was. This was something I'd come to understand ages ago. My gaze followed her closely as she spun around as if looking for something. My eyes widened as she grabbed Matt's baseball bat he'd left lying on the floor and raise it at me. "Don't you ever back talk me!" I felt the bat connect with my skull. The pain ran throughout my entire body but only a fool would believe she would end there. The bat got me a few more times before she threw it down. "Go to your room right now! I don't want to hear another word out of you, you hear me??"

It wasn't fair was all I could think as my eyes clouded over with tears. Unlike Matt, my homework was done and I had tried studying so hard just so I could try to improve my A+ average. I thought maybe then mommy would think I was smart too but like with everything else, I was clearly wrong.

I stumbled up the stairs, one shaky step after the other until I'd made it to my room. It wasn't until I took a deep breath that I realized there was something strange in my chest; a sharp pain. It hurt to breath. This I kept this to myself for fear Mother would attempt to fix it herself.

To sum up, my childhood was miserable. I spent more time in the hospital than at home and I was constantly neglected while Matt got everything his heart desired. The fact was that I was never loved.