The only exception

Part ONE

To be frank, I don't know why I did that. I just know that after a few months, I was able to take a shower without crying, and I stopped getting disappointed as I waited for her.

Despite the promises she showered on me that day, she never showed up on our porch again, and since then, I've come to wonder if my mom truly loved me. Why did she even bore me with her stomach if she would only just leave me alone with my father?

At that time, I could not help but wish I should have been born a bird.

By the time I was sixteen, I was six feet one, with dark, shiny raven hair, long legs, light porcelain skin, and a chest that pulled at the buttons of my dresses. Boys at my school would whistle at me on my way, watching me walk down the hallway, and I would get the nasty glares of the girls that would befriend me in front of my face, but stab me savagely in the back.

One day, a boy came up to me when I was left alone in my classroom. He grinned at me, though I didn't know why. He wasn't even handsome with his grin, but I think he thought he looked handsome because he'd been smiling for how many minutes, so I didn't dare break the confidence. He told me he wanted me to be his girlfriend, and to be honest, I never knew what to say back to him.

Then he kissed me. I didn't want him to kiss me. I pushed him away, but he held onto my arm.

"Oh, come on," He said. "Be my girlfriend. I know you like me,"

The classroom was empty. His arms were strong and he gripped me tightly. At that moment, I knew he was going to get what he wanted from me, whether I let him or not.

"You have this power over me."

Then he kissed me, and I felt like I was kissing a piece of shit coming from a cow's asshole. It was disgusting, but I couldn't move my body. It was as if it was paralyzed on its own. I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to scream at him that I didn't want his lips on mine. I didn't want him or this. And before I could realize it, his lips disappeared from mine, and I saw him almost fall off the ground.

I realized I had slapped him.

I could feel my hand stinging from the pain. I glanced at him, and he threw me a pair of furious eyes, boring deeply into me. His cheeks were red, and when he caressed them, he hissed at me.

"You sick bitch! You should be grateful I kissed your slutty lips, you fucking weirdo!" He points at me, as if he really meant that I should be grateful.

I flinched and didn't say anything. I could feel my tears building up, but I wouldn't show them to him. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my tears. Instead, I just stayed there quiet as I bit the insides of my cheeks.

"Oh god! Fuck, my face!" I heard him say. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. You will fucking pay for this, you fucking weirdo!"

Then he left. When he did, I felt my legs couldn't carry me anymore, and I collapsed right onto the ground. I don't know why, but there was not an ounce of tears streaming down my cheeks. Instead, I just sat there in relief that I was able to break free from his grasp.

On the night of that day, I washed my lips a thousand times until I finally felt clean, but no matter how much I tried to rinse them with water, I knew the feeling in his lips wouldn't come off. And I felt disgusted.

When the next day came, it was no surprise to be the center of attention after your classmates found out about your family history and how you used the boy they adored: motherless, miserable, slut, bitch, bitch, bitch, poor bitch, and how dare you use our oppa!

Wrecked-Park. That's what I would hear whenever I walked through the hallway. They sometimes call me that, and it makes me want to scream at them, tell them to shut their mouths, because I don't know why. They were speaking the truth. I was a motherless girl, and I know I don't have a reason to be angry about it, but I hated it when they called me names. So, despite the hard, annoying, and sharp words, I came to learn that wasting my energy on something irrelevant was useless, so I made it through high school mostly avoiding and rejecting anyone until I reached college.