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*tw: this story contains the speech of abuse and assault on multiple occasions throughout the story. If you happen to feel uncomfortable on those topics, these couple chapters near the begging may not be for you. I hope you enjoy this chapter*
LYANDRA POV "Daddy please stop! "I cried out as blood began to drip from my nose and busted lip. "It's all your fault you stupid bitch!" he yelled whipping me with his black leather belt.
Everything became a whooping.
If I took too long getting his beer, WHIPPED. If I took too long in the shower, WHIPPED. If dinner wasn't ready by the time he got back from the dealers home, WHIPPED.
As I sat down tied to a wooden chair beaten and bruised, I began to cry.
Cry because it's my fault my mother is dead. Cry because it's my fault my father became a drug addict. Cry because it's all my fault.
.....18 years ago.....
My mom was only 18 when she had gotten pregnant with me. My dad was over the moon happy, and so was my mother.
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On a Saturday evening my parents where having a romantic diner at the beach when suddenly my mother felt a pain in her left lung. My father began to panic so he did what any other human being would do, he called 911.
My mother was immediately rushed to the nearest hospital. My father wasn't sure what was going on. My mom was very healthy woamn, or so he thought.
While my father sat in the waiting room of the hospital waiting to hear what had happened he was approached by a doctor.
"I am so sorry sir, we couldn't save them both."
My father rushed into the room kneeling to my mother's bedside. He held her lifeless hand in his as he sobbed onto her chest.
On January 17,2001 my mother Anessa Brown was pronounced dead.
...2 years later...
Although life wasn't easy for dad he always made sure I had a smile on my face. He'd play games with me and read me to sleep every night.
He was my superhero, at least I thought he was.
...4 years later...
The older I got the more he changed. He'd spend countless nights on the road leaving me with nothing but moldy slices of bread and If he was home it wasn't good.
He'd always reek of alcohol cigarettes and weed. Not to mention I've seen him countless times covered in some type of white powder. Did I know what it was? No, I didn't. I just knew whatever it was is changing my dad.
...3 years later...
I guess the Coke just wasn't strong enough. When I turned 9 my father began to do drugs that were even more lethal than the ones he had already been pumping himself with.
I pumped my dad up with needles for the first time when I was only 9. What 9 year old wanted to pump their dad up with drugs everyday? I hated it, and I hated him for what he does and the things he made me do.
...May,9,2010...
As I sat at the dinner table I couldn't help but think about what life could've been like if mama hadn't died. "I wish mama was here" I mumbled to my self as poked at this disgusting plate of trash my father called diner.
"What did you say you little whore?" my father asked in a harsh tone. "I WISH MAMA WAS HERE!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Big mistake.
My father rose from his chair and walked over to me with a look of rage in his eyes. Please no, not again. He raised his beer bottle smashing it across my face with great force.
I watched as the shards of glass broke hitting the floor beneath my feet.
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I held my face with teary eyes as blood gashed from my cheeks. "DON'T EVER RAISE YOU VOICE AT ME AGAIN!" my father shouted at me as I cried silently applying pressure to my cheek.
"Do you understand me?" my father asked in a silent but deadly tone. "Yes" I whispered under my breath trying not to cry. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!" he shouted at me once more. "Yes I understated father." "Get out of my fucking sight." And with that, I ran off.
...in the bathroom...
As I stood in my bathroom I for once glanced at myself in the mirror. I looked to see the damage he had done this time.
Needless to say, I looked horrible.
I began to sob uncontrollably as my eyes caught glimpses of the cuts and bruises on my body. This wasn't the first time he had hit me but damn, it still hurt like hell.
My father entered my the bathroom throwing a first aid kit at me. He turned away being sure to slam the door behind him.
I rummaged through the first aid kit to find something I could use to close this cut. Just out of luck I happened to find a needle and thread. Perfect.
My face had to be stitched. If not I am sure it would cause me some serious health problems. I brought the needle to my face piercing it through my bleeding cheek. I winced in pain as the needle poked my skin over and over. My face needed 3 stitches, 3!
I applied some a warm water and soap to the stitches so it wouldn't get infected and let out a sigh of defeat. I sat on the bathroom floor that night wondering what I did to deserve this.
Is it my fault mama died? Was I that horrible of a daughter my father can barley stand to look at me? It's my fault, It has to be my fault. I grunted as I rose to my feet staring into the mirror.
I glanced at myself that day questioning who I had become. I was an ugly dirty and stupid girl that nobody would ever love.
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