The Abused Mate (First Version)

Prologue [PLEASE READ]

PLEASE READ!!!!!!!! A/N if you've read any of my other works you probably know I have an obsession with abuse. I've been through it. The character who is/was abused in this story will be as realistic as possible. When you're emotionally abused you don't act rationally. You're impulsive and a lot of times you're self-consciousness and emotions will control everything you do. You probably won't understand her actions and they'll probably irritate the crap out of you. That's reality for the abused, and I won't change it. Thanks for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!! (:

 (Edited)

I rolled my eyes as Mr. Cleary continued to drone on about whatever boring story we were reading. I loved school, but Cleary made my favorite class an hour and a half of hell with his boring lectures that really had nothing to do with what we were actually reading. The only interesting thing about this class was the comical outfits the nearly blind man wore to school.

Despite how horribly long this class was though, I couldn't help the panic that shot through me when I saw the clock, which was situated above the door to the right of my desk. It was 3:20P.M. School got out at 3:27P.M. Suddenly wishing English would last forever, Cleary's lecture became the most interesting thing in the world.

All too soon, the bell rang and everyone in the class stood, hurriedly shoving their belongings in their backpacks, and quickly filing out of the classroom. I internally groaned as I began gathering my stuff. "Alexa," I jumped as Cleary's voice rang out. Flinching, I turned towards the sound. He was approaching me, concern prominent in his eyes. "Yes?" I responded, hating how my soft voice sounded, so fragile.

Cleary was standing right in front of me, now, his gray eyes filled with thinly masked worry. "Is there anything going on at home? Anything you want to talk about? I’ve noticed how jumpy you are all the time and . . . How you sometimes show up with black eyes . . ." He paused, and I didn’t miss the way his eyes were glistening and he was blinking just a little too much. “You know you can talk to me about anything?” I nodded.  He sighed and continued, “Is there anything going on at home?” He was asking nicely; in a calm, soothing voice, but that didn’t stop the panic from rising within me. “No,” I told him, my voice shaky. “Alexa—”

He couldn't find out. I'd be dead. “I mean . . . No, Mr. Cleary, there’s nothing going on at home,” I attempted to correct myself, but I knew it was too late. He knew, now. He knew for sure. The anxiety was growing and I had to focus on slowing my breathing so that I wouldn't start hyperventilating.

Cleary frowned, "Alexa, you can tell me," he told me gently. My eyes widened in panic, and I glared at him. Then, I took a deep breath, "Nothing is going on at home," I told him in a much calmer voice. He reached out with his right hand, and I automatically flinched away. Realizing what I'd done, I smiled in a way that I hoped was reassuring. I glanced back up at the clock; it was 3:35P.M.

No! Father would be home in mere minutes. If he saw I wasn’t home on time, he would be angry. No, he would be absolutely livid, I corrected myself.

Realizing I’d missed almost all of Mr. Cleary’s lecture on how parents should treat their children, I rudely cut him off with an abrupt, "I have to go." Then, before he could reply, I practically ran out of the room.

I hurried through the halls of my large school. I had to get home. The anxiety was growing. It felt like I was suffocating. The front doors to the school were in sight. I sped up my pace, urging myself to go faster without looking like I was in a complete hurry. Once out the front doors, I broke into a dead run.

I couldn’t be late. My anxiety skyrocketed at the thought. He would be so angry if I was late. I could see his face now, those dark eyes glaring at me. His brown hair would be unruly and greasy. His clothes would be wrinkled and stained, barely hanging on to his scrawny frame, and he would smell of scotch and cigars. And then, he would lunge at me, screaming some obscenity before his fist collided with some part of my body.

I winced at the thought but was grateful for the motivation it brought me as I pushed myself even harder. I glanced down at my watch; I had five minutes. Son of a bitch. There was no way I was going to make it in time. I was dead. So dead. Should I just leave? Ask Mama Parker to hide me until my father gave up looking for me? No, I couldn't do that to her. She was my only friend, practically my only family.

I'd just have to go home and hope for the best.