The Only Exception (Paramore/MCR crossover)

Chapter 1

"HAYLEY! Get your ass downstairs right now!" my mother screams from downstairs. I cautiously exit the sanctuary of my bedroom, and take the steps down two by two. Both of my parents are waiting at the bottom, with vicious glares plastered on their faces.

"Report cards are out today. Where's yours?" my dad says with his raspy voice, a result of his years of smoking. I can practically smell the alcohol on his breath, but I wouldn't need to, I can already see the countless numbers of bottles and can spread around the entire house. He's a raging alcoholic, and my mother doesn't give a shit. I couldn't care less about them, but I need to be able to stay here until my singing career takes off.

"My report card is right here, sir," I whisper, handing him the page with my grades. I know for a fact my grades are low in every class, except for music. I just can't seem to understand the useless knowledge. When am I going to use the quadratic formula in my everyday life? It's not like I'm going to be an engineer or something.

My mother leans over my dad's shoulder to read the report with him. I play with a strand of my vibrant orange hair while watching my parents' faces. With every line they read, they become angrier and angrier.

My dad finishes reading the document, and crumples it in his hand. His face becomes a dark shade of red as his fists clench. I know this look. I've seen it too many times. It's the angry look that tells me I'm about to get a serious punishment.

Now, in most families, a punishment can mean many things. An electronic taken away, a trip to their room for the rest of the night, or in stricter households, even a spanking. Things are different in my house.

In the house I'm forced to live in by law, a punishment is much worse than a simple spanking. I would kill to have my punishment be as easy as a spanking. See, in this house, a punishment can be a week without food, three days locked in my room, a sexual assault, or a physical assault. I'm sure you're thinking, 'Why don't you move out?', or 'Just run away!', but things aren't that simple.

I'm only seventeen, so I'm not legally allowed to leave without my parents co-signing on an apartment, or some kind of a house. There goes option number one. If I were to run away, where would I go? I don't have any money, so I couldn't buy basic human necessities. Option number two is also out the window. I could call the police, or social services, but I know how bad foster care can be. I don't want to risk being put somewhere worse.

My father raises his hand to slap me, but before his hand reaches my face, I dash towards the carpet-covered staircase that will take me to my room. I get up three of the steps before being yanked back by my hair. I look up at the man who's been abusing me since the age of seven with hate in my eyes. He glares back with double the hate, and suddenly, my stinging scalp is the least of my problems.

Once again he raises his hand, but this time it's in a fist. His large hand comes hurdling towards my face, and this time it lands successfully. Blood spills out of my mouth, but I know better than to cry. Repeated punches land on my body, each one sure to leave a nice purple bruise.

With years of experience in this, I know makeup can cover each mark. Nobody has to know. If anyone were to find out, I'm sure the police would find out and I'd have to go into foster care, and I've already spoken my views on that. It's best to just keep quiet until the end of senior year.

At the moment, it's just the end of the first quarter in my senior year. I don't have to wait too long, I'm sure I can make it. If I can just keep my grades at a C average, I'm sure it wont get any worse. My grades are usually the only thing that angers him, but every once in a while, he'll go crazy from something else. Whether it be from bad luck while betting, or a failed attempt at picking up another under-aged girl to fuck doesn't change his power. Every beating is exactly the same, and it makes me feel like every day is exactly the same.

I feel the zipper on my denim shorts move south, and I close my eyes. This is always worse than the beatings. With physical pain, it's gone within a week at the most. This is different. You never feel better. You have to live life knowing you've been violated in the worst way possible. Most of the time, it's the only thing on your mind. During school, when you see random jocks grabbing girls asses, you thank the lord they aren't grabbing yours, because you know if they did, you would break down completely. Because even the most basic human contact repulses you. You can't stand being within a foot of someone.

I'm almost always late to class because of my fear of touch. I will stay behind for a few minutes, and then leave to go to the next class to avoid the chaos of school hallways. My teachers are pretty cool, so I don't get tardy slips. I think they know I don't like to be touched, and I'm grateful for that.

After Dad is finished, he fixes my shorts and leaves. I sit up slowly, already sore. I manage to get myself off the floor, and up the stairs to my bedroom, where I immediately drop onto my unmade bed and fall asleep.

Hello! What do you guys think of this? I'm writing this on 6-27-2015, though I don't think I'll be publishing until I have more chapters written. I actually have 25 chapters planned in a notebook, though this is the only one I've written out. Claire, Nelly if you are reading this, don't publish or write on this please! I want to do this one on my own. You can write and publish on the other one as much as you want. I don't really have any plans for it.