Her past (RE-WRITE)

Chapter 1 - Isabella's hell

(TW: Abuse, sexual assault)

Pain.

A natural body reaction to let you know you are in danger.

Like most kids, as soon as I discovered the concept I knew I didn't like it. But pain has the tendency to be unavoidable, and it follows me like my shadow.

Later, when I was nine I discovered pain didn't have to be physical, that the worst kind of pain isn't. That's the year my mom died.

After that it seemed my life was only pain. Pain of every kind.

You’d think it gets easier, that you’d get used to the pain when it’s so constant, but it only seems to get worse everyday that goes by, perhaps because every passing day I get weaker and weaker. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to handle this

It did become familiar though, the only thing that never left me. It didn't hurt less but it became something of my everyday, something I got used to.

All my pain seemed to have a name.

John.

John who was driving drunk in the accident that killed mom. John who beats me half to death because he feels like it. John that starves me for days or weeks at a time simply for the power of it. John who sneaks into my bed every night and touches me against my will, only seeming to get more excited by my whimpers.

He was my mom's husband before she died. After her death he started... Punishing me. I try to be good, I try everyday, but somehow I always earn a punishment.

It's been seven years of complete hell, I am sixteen now and my life seems to be just a recollection of bad memories with new ones adding to it every day.

Some days, I realize it's not my fault, he's just abusive. Other days, I'm convinced it is. You can't grow up like this without it getting into your head.

So I live in fear. Well, perhaps not fear, but dread. Dread because I know it’s coming, and I know I can’t avoid it.

I wish I was angry, I wish I could insult him in my head, hate him with every bone in my body. But I don’t feel angry. I just feel weak, desperate, and kind of guilty. I sometimes think he’s telling the truth: I really am a worthless slut, and I deserve the punishment. Sometimes I believe I killed my mom. Sometimes I believe I earned this hell.

I make it through the day dreaming about better futures and the end of my pain, but being honest everyday I'm more and more hopeless that anything will ever change. My destiny seems to be dying in this hellhole

***
I feel the horrible dread eat me up inside, quickening my heartbeat, making my breaths turn shallow and my throat to close as I walk - or well, limp- as fast as I’m able.

I try to make my steps faster and faster, and I’m almost unable to stop myself from crying out  at the pain it causes, my body tilting to the left at the sharp pain in my right ankle, every step feeling as if it was breaking all over again. But I don’t let the pain slow me down, I can’t, I’m already late.

I know there’s no point, my destiny was marked the second my teacher decided to stop me after class, even if it was only a few minutes I know it meant I wasn’t there cooking as soon as John got home, and that means I am going to be punished, no matter how much I run now.

I can picture it already, I can almost already feel his rage turned into wounds. Like I don’t have enough of those already.

After a couple of minutes of the horrible pain walking causes I see the house getting closer, and I know only worse pain awaits. I try to be silent when entering, and it is as useless as walking faster. I know he’s waiting just on the other side of the door, glad for any excuse to beat me, as if he needed one, as if he wouldn’t do it regardless.

And still, even with the knowledge that he doesn’t need an excuse, I feel the self hatred for being late, for provoking him.

I see him as soon as I open the door.

John isn’t a muscular man, he looks weak and small, more aged than he is and he has yellow teeth from smoking.

He looks disgusting, but harmless.

There’s nothing harmless about him, or at least not to a nine year old that’s mourning and unable to defend herself, not to a sixteen year old with broken bones, full of cuts and bruises and a fragile body from years of malnutrition.

He’s anything but harmless to me.

I can never defend myself against him, no matter how much I try.

And here I am again, in this never ending situation.

He grabs me by my hair, pulling me until he's half an arm's length away. I can smell the now familiar scent of alcohol and smoke with every breath he takes.

"Where were you? I bet you were messing around with some boy, weren't you, you little slut?" He holds on tighter and tighter to my hair and I whimper.

"N-no, no I w-wasn't." Immediately I feel the hard sting of a slap in my right cheek.

"Don't you lie to me, you stupid bitch. You think you can do whatever you want? You're nothing but a waste of space, you should have died long ago." He says that and I wonder, why hasn't he killed me?

I wish he did it already, I'm sick of this.

But it's never going to stop.

"I'm not l-lying."

A punch in the stomach comes next. He lets go of my hair and I collapse to the ground.

I can't even count the kicks he gives me after that.
First in the head, this dizzies me and the world becomes a blur, spots everywhere in my view, but I still feel the pain clearly.

It's everywhere. Ribs, arms, legs, stomach. He doesn't stop hitting and hitting until I feel a crack on my ribs and I scream loudly.

The pain of a broken bone is intense, and by now, familiar, and makes the world unclear as I can only cry.

That's until I feel his hands in my thighs, separating my legs. I sob more loudly.

"N-no please." I manage to whisper. I can barely breath, I'm in so much pain I can't even try to move away from his disgusting hands as he undresses me.

I close my eyes. It doesn't help. I feel every single thing. I feel him entering  me violently, and starting to move back and forth, again and again and again and I feel like it's never going to stop.

His mouth and fingers attack my breast biting and touching, hurting everything in their way until his hands find their favorite spot around my neck.

He pushes hard and I choke with my own saliva as my lungs fight to breath but find no air.

My mind on the other hand wishes him to push harder, or longer, so maybe this time I don't survive it, maybe this time I will finally be set free.

But he does not kill me. He does not have the mercy.

Instead he uses me, then leaves me there, broken and in pain on the floor.
Just like he does every time.

***
Question of the chapter: Normally do you root for the villain or the hero? Why?