Stuck in a Storm (ON HOLD)

seven | dad?

After our kiss I made my way inside and tried to avoid my dad. But right as I walked inside I saw him sitting in the living room waiting for me. And by the look on his face he was not happy. I halted in my steps and my previously happy state disappeared.

"Uh, hey dad."

Anger coated his features at my words. His fists clenched and he was taking deep breaths to calm his tense body.

"Hey dad?" he grits out "Hey dad! Jesus Christ Audrey it's almost 1am! Where the hell were you? You didn't think to check in?"

Using all the self control I have, I manage to not lash out at him. Taking deep breaths to keep my attitude in check I say "Sorry about that, I told you I was out celebrating the game. I just lost track of time."

My words do nothing to calm him down, as he stands up and begins moving his arms around as he angrily speaks to me.

"Lost track of time! Why the hell didn't you at least text me! No, you were to busy kissing Aiden Black, weren't you? I've been worried sick!"

My restraint completely dwindled as I spit "Well shit dad, I'm not really used to 'checking in'. I've been taking care of myself for the past 10 years, and I sure as shit can continue to do so. I don't need to be babied."

His features slightly softened, but he was still beyond angry as he said "You are my daughter, Audrey. I'm trying here, and you taking off all night isn't helping!"

Scoffing at his words I hiss "Oh, so now I'm your daughter? Was I your daughter these last 10 years? Huh?"

I interrupt his words by continuing "If mom didn't get arrested I wouldn't even be here right now! I probably would have never seen you again! You abandoned me. You left me with her, for what? A career in football coaching?

You have no idea the shit I've been through this past decade" I continue "I've seen shit, I've experienced shit, nobody should ever have to see. And where the hell were you? Where were you!"

At this point I'm in hysterics, screaming and yelling, but it feels as though I couldn't speak loud enough for him to hear me, to understand me.

"You were here, living your perfect all American life." I hiss "You were here, living a cliche as a fucking football coach, soaking up all the glory thrown your way. You were here, pretending that I didn't even exist."

My dads anger matches mine as he angrily shouts back "I was here, thinking of you every damn day! I was here worried sick about you, but hoping for the best! I was here waiting for you to call me for Christ sakes, because I couldn't keep up! You guys moved without telling me! I tried Au-"

"No." I spit "You don't get to do that. You don't get to tell me how hard you tried and how much you worried. You don't get to do that because the bottom line is that you left! You fucking left me! I was eight years old! I was eight years old and I needed you, I needed my dad! And you moved to a different fucking country!"

My words managed to shut us both up, all that could be heard was our panting breaths. My dad looked conflicted, broken.

"I'm sorry Audrey. I shouldn't have left." my dad remorsefully says.

Taking a deep breath I say "No, I'm sorry for coming here. I should have known I'm no longer suited for a normal life, but I was naive and tried anyway."

And with that I went to my room and lost myself to my nightmares.

----

I'm fourteen and quickly walking through the slums to get to the apartment. Mom just made us move to a new apartment, and this one is the worst one yet.

With the prostitutes on every corner, gangsters and pimps walking the streets at all hours of the day, and perverts constantly on the hunt, you could say it was a less than ideal place to live.

For me anyways, my mom loved having so many pieces of shit around, loved having drugs so easily at her disposal.

It's now 11pm and my shift at some shitty fast food place just ended, which is why I am power walking home. Dressed in all black, with my hood up, I try to blend into my surroundings.

I'm about five minutes away from my building when I hear multiple footsteps behind me.

Forcing myself to take deep breaths, I try to calm my racing heart as I grip my pepper spray. I subtly quicken my pace, as well as square my shoulders in attempt to make my small frame look bigger.

Turning the corner I now see my building and I have to physically stop myself from running towards it.

I feel their presence getting closer to me, which is when I lose my grasp on my self control and run to my building.

It's a shame I don't even make it five steps until they've grabbed onto me and pulled me into a hard chest.

With one hand covering my mouth and the other keeping my waist pinned to his chest, my captor leans down to whisper "Look like we've got a looker here, don't we?"

My body shivers in disgust and I begin trying to fight off his hold, but I sadly fail. I look around to see three more men surrounding me, all wearing matching smirks. Smirks that send an overwhelming sense of terror into my body, and I have to fight off my minds urge to shut down.

Not allowing myself to think the worst, to think that these men would actually gang rape me, I take deep breaths and try to find a way out of this situation.

It's not until my captors hold on me wavers do I remember I still have my pepper spray on me. Just as I'm about to hit him with a good spray he turns me around and slaps me in the face with so much force that I fall to the ground.

"Stupid bitch, the less you fight the better it will be for you." he hisses.

The other men cynically chuckle behind him, and that's when I start to realize that there is no way out of this.

Not allowing myself to cry, I will myself to not go down without a fight. With that thought I pepper spray my captor relentlessly, and while the men are distracted I run for my life.

With my building in eye sight I push my body to it's limits. I can hear the men running behind me, shouting that they will find me, but I don't stop.

I sprint into the building so aggressively I almost break the door, but I don't stop the find out. I run into the stairwell and lock the door behind me. I still don't allow myself to stop, as I sprint up the stairs to our fifth floor apartment.

Flinging our door open and slamming it shut, I'm greeted with the sight of my mom doing a line of coke off our living room table, surrounded by drug addicted prostitutes and drug dealing men who look at me with the same hunger the other men were looking at me with.

My mother of course fails to notice my distressed state, or her creepy friends.

"Hello dear, would you like to do a line with your mother?"