Scars

Bottle Of Vodka

Based off of Demi Lovato's song For The Love Of A Daughter.

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I was four years old, sitting in my golden bedroom with my arms wrapped around my knees and my back to the door. Millions of tiny, baby tears ran down my face in the saddest, most frightened marathon the world had ever seen.

Far, far downstairs, the Heartfilia's mansion's double doors slammed open, making the tiny me flinch. A fresh wave of tears spilled out, making my small body tremble even more than it already was.

I heard the yelling of my father before I heard the running. That was expected, though. Every evening, when my "father", Jude Heartfilia, stumbled into the mansion, drunk as hell, the servants - well, mostly his servants - would crowd around him, and try to persuade him to let go of the fresh bottle he'd picked up from some tavern somewhere. They'd fail. Then, they'd attempt to talk him into going straight into his bed chambers, again failing.

I listened to the stomping on the stairs quietly. My whole body trembled, but I still stood and turned to face the door.

As the footsteps got closer and closer, I began to hear the splashing of the alcohol inside the bottle that my so-called father carried.

I flinched again.

This time, he might not hold back.

This time, he might not stop at bruises.

This time, he had a weapon.

And yet four year-old me still stood, facing the entrance to my large bedroom and trying to hide my shaking. I wiped the tears from my face roughly, wishing that I was stronger and that I hadn't started crying when I'd heard the awful man's car door bang shut.

I took a step back as the man threw my door open, not caring about the scuffed and dented wall behind it that worsened every day. Not caring that his four year-old daughter was standing trembling before him. Not caring about his wife as she clung to his elbow in an attempt to stop him hitting their child again. Only caring that the drink in his bottle was very nearly gone and that he'd soon be able to swing it at Lucy's head.

He smiled grimly.

"Little b****." The man swore at me, his smile turning more and more bloodthirsty as he did so. "How dare you take my wife away from me, with your incessant screaming and your constant crying?" He hissed cruelly, deliberately spitting in my face, ignoring the flinch and the fresh tears.

He took a step closer, his small, beady eyes focusing on my shaky step backwards.

"Why, you -" He yelled, raising his bottle and splashing the four year-old me from head to toe with the remnants of his Bacardi 151 vodka, successfully emptying his bottle.

My mum screamed and clung into his arm harder.

"Jude, no, she only screams because you scare her -"

"Don't make excuses for her, Layla!" The man shouted, making me quiver. Why is this man my father? I remember thinking. No, I told myself sternly. He'll never be my father.

"You have to make excuses for her, Jude, she's only four!"

"That doesn't matter!" The man screamed, his bottle crashing into my small arm with every word.

Mum screamed.

I screamed too.

A wound opened up and blood began to trickle out.

The man smiled coldly, bringing his arm back to jab at me again. Mum lunged in front of the now broken glass bottle, taking the hit for me. Silent, pained tears streamed down her face as the dress area around her stomach began to turn dark red.

The man's eyes widened in horror for a moment, then narrowed in anger.

"LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID, YOU MORONIC CHILD!" The scary man bellowed at me. "YOU MADE ME HURT MY WIFE!"

I could practically feel Mum's eyes narrow in disgust.

"You hit me anyway." She said, sounding repulsed. "Don't try and pin everything on my baby girl."

"It's her fault!" The man roared, trying to step around Mum to strike me again. "She's the one who did all this!"

"She's four." Mum repeated icily. "She can't have done anything to you."

I peered around Mum's skirts, trying not to be seen. My arm hurt.

"She stole you from me!" He shrieked. Spotting me, the man lunged under Mum's outstretched arm before she could react, slamming the jagged glass against the top of my skull.

I screamed, collapsing to the floor and clutching my bleeding head. Mum fell to her knees beside me, gently but firmly peeling my hands away and inspecting the wound.

The man paused for a second.

"Well?" The man sang happily. "Got nothing to say for yourself, have you? She's not innocent at all, is she? I knew you'd come around, Layla, it was only a matter of time -"

Through bleary vision, I saw Mum stand up, whirl around and punch him in the face.

"You go. . . Mum. . ." I managed to whisper to her before I passed out.

It was just a shame that my birthday fell on that day.