She May Not Belong to One of Us, but She Belongs to All of Us

Chapter 1

Here I am again, lying on our stained white carpet, my body covered with blood, bruises and years old clothing. His heavy footsteps retreat from my beaten body sprawled out on the floor. Picking my battered body off of the floor, slowly I begin the process of patching myself up using the torn pieces of dirty and stained clothes that I could no longer fit. My limbs feel weaker than jelly. This process has become a daily occurrence. Every day, week, year the pattern never changes. The pain never stops coming. My endless hell is right here on Earth.

I remember the days where as a young girl, I wondered if every father was like mine, if every father lived out his evil and demented thoughts on their little girls. As the years slowly progressed I learned quickly that this life was a hell only endured by me. It was only my dad that thoroughly enjoyed treating me to this degree of torture. Being a single child even further put the entirety of all beatings on me, though I wouldn't allow another soul to suffer at his hands even for a second. My father being the five foot eight demon in my life. His stature was not impressive, short in height and wide in the waistband. His dark skin tone typically hidden beneath the ratty, old long sleeve shirts he frequently wore. Despite the temperatures never reaching less than 75 here in California, father always preferred wearing long pants and shirts. Top of his head was smooth from going bald before I had been conceived. After so many years looking at him the way, I don't think I could ever picture him with hair, or a smile.

As I watch my ruby red blood turn into tiny crystals on my skin from a previous cut being busted open while sitting on my saggy and old mattress, I'm drenched in agony. Forever doomed to suffer through this physical and emotional abuse. I have the blood of my mother on my hands and I fully accept the punishment that comes with taking a life, especially one as beautiful as my mother's. My father all too often enjoys reminding me exactly the toll my birth took on my mother, showing me pictures of her holding me, just mere hours before she hemorrhaged in her uterus and bled to death in the same hospital bed I was born in. At times I believed that the big smile she had on her face was a sign that maybe, despite what happened, she wouldn't regret giving birth to me. Those thoughts and hopes never even got enough time to flourish with how fast my guilt sucked the life out of them.

My parents were practically promised a boy, a shining beacon in my family's eyes. Yet fate had a very sly and sick game to play with my parents. "Hurry your stupid ass up and get dressed! You have school and you need to finish making me breakfast." Upon hearing his booming voice from across the hall, I scattered out of the bathroom, ignoring the pain radiating everywhere. Stepping into the bathroom, I looked in the mirror seeing a collage of purples and yellows staring right back at me.

It never stops shocking me how much of her I can see on my face, well between the busted lip and black eye of course. The hardest part to swallow is how normal it is for me to see myself like this. Black eyes and split lips were my daily makeup look and I had no idea how I looked without a bruise or cut somewhere on my face and body. Most people won't ever realize how shitty it is to realize that if I went a month without being struck, I don't think I would even recognize my own face. Fate's entire mission in my life is to make me atone for what I had put my mother through. With God as my witness, I wish I could call whoever is up there tipping the scales of fate and justice and tell them yes, I understand and I'm sorry. Pulling myself out of my mind, I took a quick shower scrubbing my skin as rough as the injuries would allow me. I step out of the shower and dress as quickly as I can. Once I've walked down the stairs in the kitchen, I search throughout the kitchen looking for anything to make before father comes down those stairs. It was a severe punishment if his breakfast wasn't prepared when he walked down the stairs. Almost cracking a smile, my eyes landed on just the right amount of supplies to make Father pancakes and eggs.

Quickly, I put myself to work, the amount of pain I'm in, being ignored. Despite having his meal prepared in time, no relief enters my body as he comes down the stairs. No words of acknowledgement or gratitude spoken, just a tense silence that carried on until he dismissed me from the table so I could go to the bus stop. It was comforting standing under the bus stop as the rain catapulted to the ground. With its thunderous impact happening millions and millions of times over again, many would find it a nuance, a force of nature that would ruin their hair. But to me I see so much more than raindrops falling from the sky. In my eyes, I see the world washing itself clean and starting anew. Nature's desperate pleas to be clean again and do right this time.

The thought of starting over quiets my mind as the cold breeze and chilly droplets caresses my tired aching body harshly. When it rains, it's almost as if the sky understands me, knows exactly what I need. For my mind and body to be washed clear of my sins. My mind and soul bleached clean and secured with the opportunity to do and have so much more. Even eighteen years later, I would give anything, especially myself, to bring her back. From what I've seen in this world there isn't much of a happy ending for an eighteen year old who ended her own mother. What I see ahead of me is a world destined to shun and hate me almost as much as I hate myself. Unfortunately, Fate, Buddha or whatever great power up there, didn't think too much of my offer. My cries and pleas can never bring her back and her death will forever stain my hands. It will be a shadow cast on me for all my life. The vivid flashing of light gave a break to my thoughts and my eyes opened to the bright yellow bus that was waiting on me to get on. The vehicle took me to a completely different, yet just as torturous, hellhole. I quietly took my seat right behind the bus driver, speaking no words to my peers, never quite prepared for the long day ahead of me.

School starts with not a single teacher noticing me or the numerous injuries covering my skin. Not that they would've cared very much if they ever picked their heads up from their desks or pried their eyes from the students who came in with bright smiles and happy lives. They never cared very much about the students who needed them. The rejects, abused kids, just plain weirdos. We fell by the wayside and were left there to either claw our ways out or let life bury us. I have spent years never covering up even one black eye or busted lip. There they were, practically on display for any caring individual to notice however nobody ever did. We were their headache students that didn't catch up or make their days easier. Why care about us when our own families didn't?