Broken

"Charlotte." a voice sounds behind me, and I'm jolted awake. God, no. It can't be- is it?

"Charlotte!" the voice sounds again. No. No. It's him.

"I'm here." I whisper. I wish I could just run away, but when I disobey him, he goes even harder on me.

"Here?! Speak up, Char." I feel a hold hand clamp my hand. My eyes sting as they're blinded with a bright light. Oh no. He turned the lights on. That means I'm being punished. As my eyes adjust to the light I see the figure of the man I'm ashamed to call my father. He's wearing a formal shirt and black pants- it must have been that meeting that he had today.

"Your mother's out" he smiles and steps closer to me.

"I know" I nod and stare into his cold eyes. I'm afraid to look at him; I'm even more afraid to look away.

"Come here" he holds his hands out and smiles dangerously, beckoning me to come into them. My feet helplessly walk towards him, and as I come closer I smell the all too familiar smell of alcohol. He's been drinking. His arms wrap around me in embrace. Most girls would see this as a sign of affection from their father, and hug them back. This is supposed to be a moment where you feel safe, and protected. But the relationship I have with my father is far from what it's supposed to be. I'm alert. Constantly. Fear runs through my veins as he pulls me in tighter. He's not hurting me this very second, but I never know when he's going to snap. He loosens his grip, and I slip out of the 'hug'.

"I had that meeting today" he looks at me and places his large hands on my shoulders.

"How was it?" I manage to mutter.

"I BLEW IT!" All of a sudden, he pushes me back, and pain sears through my body as I crash into the wall.

"THEY FIRED ME!" he yells again, kicking me in my leg.

"THEY ACTUALLY FIRED ME! THOSE NASTY LITTLE-" he starts, but stops mid sentence. I push myself up using my arms and blink back tears. I wait to be pushed again, or beat, or even yelled at, but his eyes just narrow down on me dangerously. I even see a glimmer of a smile on his face. I wish he would he would hurt me or scream; then I'd know it was the worst that was going to happen. Now I'm unsure. And that's scary.

"You're breaking." he whispers.

"I-I'm...." I start, but I really don't know what to say. What does 'you're breaking' mean?

"How long has it been since I started beating you?" his eyes soften.

"Six years. You started when I was seven." I look down so he does not see the hot tears flowing down my cheeks; he can't see the pain inflicted by years of mental and physical abuse.

"Who are you again?" his wild blue eyes absentmindedly rest on my own brown one's.

"I'm Charlotte. I'm your daughter." It hurts to say the word. The word that ties me to him... I know that my father had spent five years in a mental asylum. He had severe depression and anger management issues. He hasn't gotten better at managing them- just better at hiding them. Almost every day, he takes all his anger and frustration out on me. I'm his punching bag. He beats me, hits me, tells me I'm worthless...and so much more. Honestly, the mental bullying hurts more than the physical. I'm failing school. I have no friends. I randomly start crying in class. I have suicidal thoughts, and I've attempted suicide once. He caught me and said that if I commit suicide, he'd kill my mother and brother. That's the only thing keeping me alive and from reporting him. I know he has other men around. He makes sure that my mother does not find out about the abuse. He's even rented a small flat on a dingy apartment. I hate being away from home. I'm supposed to come there everyday after school. My mother thinks I'm playing football- instead I'm being beat. She even pays tuition for 'football classes'. My dad uses the money to buy more alcohol and drugs. Even if I report the abuse and he's arrested, the men will come in and kill my family. Then they'll be arrested, but It'll be too late. Myself, my mother and my five-year old brother will already be gone.

"Charlotte. I KNOW! But who are you to me?" He responds.

"I'm your daughter." I repeat again. Sometimes the alcohol and drugs do that to him. He blanks out for a second. Most of the times when he's beating me, he does not know what he's doing. He barely knows I'm his daughter.

"And how long have I- I been be-beating- beating ya?" his voice cracks.

"Six years" I repeat calmly. I can't show any fear.

"I've been beatin' my own daughter for seven year?! God, I didn't even know I had a daughter!" He starts bawling. Suddenly, the sadness turns into anger.

"YOU" he narrows his eyes at me. "You should've told me! You should've told me I had a daughter! You moron! WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?! DO YOU HAVE MY DAUGHTER?!" he yells and starts chucking books at me.

"I am your daughter!" I yell.

"Oh. Oh. Oh, Char." his eyes soften again and he walks towards me and grips my hand.

"Please let go." I whisper. Bad move. He's even more angered now.

"I KNOW YOU AREN'T MY DAUGHTER! MY DAUGHTER WOULDN'T SAY THAT!" he holds my wrist tightly and turns it I hear a crack, and I wince in pain.

"Stop" I whisper.

"HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, HUH?!" he laughs wickedly.

"Stop." I say, louder this time.

"HURTS BAD, HUH?!" he yells again.

"STOP!" I explode. I kick him in the stomach and I run. I've never done this before; I've never stood up to him. But this is too much to bear. I can't face this torment any more. I sprint down the stairs in tears, receiving a few surprised stares form bypassers around me. But I don't care. God, I don't care. I've never cared less. It's too much. I don't care if my mother dies, I don't care if my brother dies, and I don't CARE if I die. I've lost everything because of him, I've lost my purpose...I've lost my need for life. I'm just an empty soul occupying a body. I'm nothing. I sprint down. I run through the woods behind my dad's apartment and finally reach a small alley, just next to the road between the woods and main road. I throw my back against the brick wall and sink down. He's crazy. He's a psychopath. My head sinks as I exhale, I don't even bother to cry. Crying is for people who care, and I don't. I doze off into a sleep and I can't tell for how long. My eyelids flutter open and I stir slightly as the silhouette of a man nears. I open my eyes and tilt my head back slightly to see that the man is none but my abuser. I don't budge. He has no control over me any more. He is powerless. He can't make me feel- can't make me care- and can't make me do anything.

He smirks and pulls out a weapon that I recognize as a gun. I sigh slightly. My breath shakes. I consider running, but my body is paralyzed- I don't know why. Fear? Strength? Bravery? Selfishness? Or maybe it's the fact that I don't care what he does. Yep, that's it. But deep down, back there I'm still scared. Don't shoot. I plead with my mind. I have a future. I want to go to college, fall in love, have kids, become successful....

...too late.

His hand presses the trigger. The silver bullet hits me and sends a shockwave through my body. My legs go numb, and the feeling in my body is lost in seconds. My body sinks...like it's melting. Air is sucked out of my lungs. That agonizing millisecond- my last breath. Short and painful. A searing pain- like a knife is sliding up my throat- as it escapes my lungs. I see colors I've never seen before and instantly, they're erased out. Now there's just black and blue. Darkness. Everything fades till there's nothing. Nothing. My body trembles with the last deep heartbeat. I feel the wind- my last glimpse at life. The numbness slowly starts crawling up from my legs. I know it's over.

I'm broken.

Though this is a fictional story, it is based off of millions of true ones. 1 out of every six American woman has been the victim of completed or attempted physical, sexual or mental abuse in her lifetime. Only 3% of the abusers face even one day of jail time. 61% of the victims are under the age of 17. This needs to stop.