Broken // Zayn

Broken

Prologue:

"Hollister Allison Miller!"

My eyes snapped open and I hurried to my feet. She used my full name. She must have been angry at me for something that I supposedly did again. I pulled some slippers on my cold feet and rushed up the stairs while putting my dark hair into a high pony tail. I opened up the basement door to see Medusa herself; also know as my own mother. Her dark brown hair was sticking up in all sorts of directions and the color was similar to mine but mine ended up much darker. A beer bottle was clutched in her hands and she was squeezing it so tightly, I wondered if it would crush in her boney hands. She had icy blue eyes full of hatred and disgust. My eyes were close to her's but much brighter and full of less hatred. Mine were opened in fright more than anything.

"Yes, mom?" I asked her in a small voice. She approached me and grabbed me by the collar and slammed me against the wall behind me.

"I told you we were having guests over today and I left you a list of chores on the fridge. You didn't do a single one of them." She told me. It made sense that I didn't see it since they've locked me in the basement since the night before. There was no way of me seeing it down here. Mom's breath smelled of alcohol as she exhaled onto my face. She basically used liquor as her mouthwash in the morning and it smelled excellent after giving it a few minutes to settle in her mouth, most definitely. I held back my gagging and kept my face straight.

I flinched as her hand came towards my face and I felt my cheek burning. "I'm sorry, I'll do them right now." I nearly walked off, about to begin doing the chores.

"No!" Mom yelled, throwing me to the hard ground. "Your father did them already. You're definitely not eating a crumb tonight! Andrew!" She called my step dad over while keeping her eye on me.

He looked furious and he smelled like he bathed in a dumpster with a bundled up pair of used underwear as a loofa. He shouldn't have been so mad, I've been cleaning by myself since I was around seven. A vein popped out of his neck making me wonder if he was really getting that mad because he had to do the dishes and wipe the kitchen table or if he was just taking out all of his anger caused by someone else on me; that was what usually happened anyways. "You," he pointed at me with his filthy index finger, "were supposed to do this. Not me. Who do you think you are, sleeping when you should be cleaning?" He kicked me in the side, "Get up!"

I stood up with a scared face as he brought his fist back and punched me square in the nose. I stumbled back while holding my nose and stray hair flew in my face. He grabbed me by the waist and opened the basement door, also known as my bedroom, and tossed me in like I was trash. I tumbled down the stairs and banged my knee on the wall. Wincing, I held back tears. "You know what? You're not eating for two days! I've had enough with your attitude! You get what you deserve!" He slammed my door shut. I couldn't even count how many times he has said that to me. What did I even do to deserve all of this?

I laid on the floor for another twenty minutes, listening to my parents discuss how much of a disgrace I was to the family. I eventually picked myself up and dusted off my dirty shirt. I went to the small bathroom in the corner of the basement to wash myself off and clean up my bloody nose.

My reflection looked back at me. I shouldn't have these bruises and scars. I didn't remember doing anything, but I was abused since I was younger. They didn't love me like I saw parents love their children on TV. All of that 'I love you' junk was stupid and it didn't exist, at least not where I've looked. The wounds all over my body proved it. It was all lies. When someone says 'I love you,', I wouldn't suggest listening because they'll most likely leave you or screw everything up, leaving you heartbroken.

I walked from the bathroom to the corner where my mattress was located. No bed frame, just the naked mattress with no sheets. I grabbed a plastic bag and put in undergarments, my tooth brush, hair brush, and my diary. I had that diary since I was seven years old and it has been coming with me everywhere. I told it everything.

I looked outside to see that it was pouring heavily and put on my messy sneakers. I was wearing gray sweat pants and a dark blue long sleeved shirt with a little hood on it. I pushed a chair in front of the window and opened it with my bag hanging from my arm. I slithered through the thin hole, which was particularly easy for me since I ate about a grand total of two meals a month, and closed it after me. I ran as best as I could away from that horrid home that I never wanted to see again.

My hair was sticking to my face and I was already drenched from the downpour. Mud was all over my sweatpants but it was better than the dust that I collected on my outfit from being thrown around and treated like a piece of garbage. As long as I was away from those two evil creatures, I was happier.

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Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and if you're interested, save this to your library, please! ~Kyra