Hold Me Close

Ch. 6

Hello, beauties! It's me again. The annoying girl that makes WAY too many innuendoes, aka Charlie. Here's another chapter! I'm sorry that's it's so late, I've been writing in my Fandom One Shots book a lot lately.

Annabeth

My room was always cold.

The window by my bed let in a large draft, causing creepy whistling noises to keep me up at night. My blankets were scratchy and didn't supply much warmth, but they were better than sitting there without a cover while my room slowly got colder and colder.

I wore little sweatpants with a tee shirt, nothing special, it was hand-me-downs from my sister. But even she didn't have good clothes or anything. The only one who did was Malcolm, my brother. He was always dad's favorite.

My dad, a tall man with white-blonde hair and flaming gold eyes, wasn't my real dad. He had taken me in years before, when I was five, and had been a light in the darkness after my parents were killed in a gang attack. He had been kind and gentle, and I had grown to love him like a father.

Then he turned cold and I found out about his true intentions. He only kept the three of us kids because he got money out of it, and he was a sadistic man. He locked my sister and I in our rooms alone most of the time, and my brother stayed peacefully oblivious of this. He had always thought of Malcolm as better than us...

So, as I curled in my bed and tried to stop shivering long enough to close my eyes and go to sleep, I cursed him under my breath with words a seven year old shouldn't know. But I knew them, for one reason. Because I was used to having them screamed at me.

My throat was sore from my impending cold and I coughed once or twice. But I tried to stay silent, or he would come in and scream. And, maybe even more.

I was only seven years old and I worried that my father was going to hit me. That wasn't right. Most people would say "Aw! She didn't deserve that!" But then they would let it go, not talk about it anymore. They would say that maybe I should have obeyed him better. They'd blame me because it's too difficult to blame him. But, I thought I deserved it. I thought that I was a stupid little girl that deserved whatever he did to me. And that was the worst part about it.

It was well into the night when I dissolved into a fit. I could barely breath between my coughs as I almost rolled off the bed trying to get air. When I had finally stopped, I didn't lift my head from my mattress because I knew better. I heard the door open and shut a few minutes before, and I knew he stood there.

His fingers pressed against my neck and I automatically flinched away. I looked up in time to see his eyes narrow.

"You woke your brother." He said coldly, "He has a test tomorrow."

The anger in his eyes made me want to curl into a ball and dissolve into nothing. I was terrified.

He had me by the hair a few moments later and yanked me from my bed. I slammed against the floor with a painful yelp.

"Shut up!" He ordered. I clambered up, ignoring the stinging on my knees and the way my wrist throbbed with pain from where I landed on it. He tugged me from my room, into the light of the hallway, and forced me down the stairs. Each step felt like a death sentence.

"Good girls mind their daddies." His growling voice was right by my ear and I shuddered.

"Bad girls..." He pulled me into the living room and shoved me to the floor. I took deep breaths, looking at him with tears in my defiant eyes, "Get hurt."

I didn't know at first if he was hitting me with his hands or what, but later on I knew it was a belt. He hit me in three spots; on the face, on my legs, and on my back. When he finished, I was hugging my knees to my chest and crying.

The floor creaked and I looked up to see shocked grey eyes. Malcolm stood in the doorway, his fists clenched.

"Dad? Annabeth?" He asked softly.

"Go back to bed, Malcolm." My dad's voice was deep and full of order. Malcolm just stood there, staring at me. I felt blood running down my leg, and hurriedly hid it. If Malcolm had seen that, I knew my dad would either take it out on me or my sister.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice shaky. Malcolm didn't believe me.

"You hit her." For a ten year old, he held a whole lot of anger.

"Malcolm! Bed! Now!" My dad screamed. Malcolm was scared, and looked at me with eyes full of sorrow.

His footsteps retreated up the stairs quickly, and I honestly didn't blame him. And I still don't. But it still hurt to see your big brother run away as you're hurting.

The next thing I knew, my dad had pulled me up and held me by the arms. I was limp as he screamed at me about always ruining things, and I stayed limp until the moment he threw me out.

So, yeah. You could say I have trust issues. But what's it to you?