Watching You |

Chapter 1

Amelia's POV:-

"Nooo!!!"

"Stop!! Please stop!!"

"The daughter of a whore is a whore."

I wake up with tears streaming down my face, my body covered in sweat. I breathe rapidly, trying to clear my mind. It takes a few minutes for me to realize where I am. 

Sunlight peeks through the curtains, reminding me that I'm no longer the girl afraid of the dark.

I get up from bed, still feeling dizzy from the nightmare. It's normal for me to have nightmares, but I've learned how to handle the aftermath. 

Practice makes perfect, right? 

I enter the bathroom on shaky legs.

 The girl in the mirror is a mess, with beautiful dark brown hair, full pink lips, a small button nose, and big, bambi brown eyes. 

She looks empty and haunted now.

I splash cold water on my face.

"Get it together, Ami," I whisper to myself. "One more year, and I'll be out of here. Just one more."

I get ready for hell—aka my school. 

That's what it is to me.

 One more year, and that's all.

I walk down the stairs in our house. It's not small, but not huge either.

 A two-story house is too big for just two people. Not that I have any say in it, just like I don't have much say in my own life.

"Morning, Amelia." A voice jolts me out of my thoughts. 

No emotion, just words. 

My mother.

"Morning, Mother," I reply in the same tone. 

She's wearing black pressed trousers and a plain white top. Veronica Evans is a beautiful and elegant lady in her late 30s, with fair skin, dark brown hair that I inherited, and striking grey eyes.

The woman who gave birth to me. 

The woman who raised me. 

The woman who is my guardian. 

But that's it. 

She is my mother, but she can never be my mom.

She sits at the head of the table, so I take the seat at the other end. We are not a family. We are two people living under the same roof. Housemates—that's what we are.

 As I reach for the salted butter, a stern voice stops me.

"Watch what you eat, Amelia." She glares at me with sharp eyes, disgust written all over her face.

"You should eat less of that. I can't afford for you to get fat and ugly. It'll ruin my image." I roll my eyes internally. 

She's been saying that since I was 11. It doesn't affect me anymore. 

Well, maybe a bit. 

I drop the toast and gulp down a glass of milk in one go.

 I swallow the words ready to spill out—'I don't give a fuck.' Instead, I smile at my mother.

"I'll keep that in mind, Mother," I say, taking my bag and walking out calmly, like nothing happened.

 That's what I've been doing for years.

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(A/N: Okay, so this is my first book, or you could say, the first time I've attempted to write. Please give it a try and let me know your thoughts on the story. I'm open to suggestions. Do follow and show your love, guys.)