His Badass Mute

Chapter 1: Sinister's Shelter

When I fought in the ring, it was different than it was now. When I fought, it wasn't fear that coursed through my body; it was anger. It wasn't shutting me down; it was fueling my fight.

I never lost a fight in the ring, but right now, I wasn't in the ring; I was in hell.

My very own personal hell.

"I ASKED...you a question!" Mitch said as he crouched down to me. His smelly, hot breath that smelled vaguely like sewer, made my face humid with every word he sneered. The way he looked at me with such anger, made me angry. But I was like a fire in an empty building. At this moment, the anger was only tearing me down.

"What are you doing to her!" Zach shouted, the sound of metal clanked after his voice. Mitch kicked me in my stomach and grabbed the collar of my shirt, bringing me to a standing position.

"You're hurting me," I mumbled in pain. He stopped in his tracks and turned to me.

"You think I give a shit about you?" His face turned into a snare. "I would laugh if you died!" He looked me in the eyes; the fire that started out of anger burned brighter. The way he spoke was calm and true. "Mae...I hate you." The way his cheeks cringed in anger when he said the word hate felt genuine. Mitch started dragging me, but I managed to take a few steps as he did. He pushed me into Zach's room. "It's still there...for now." He looked at Zach.

"Just leave her alone!" Tears fell from Zach's eyes as he shook his head. "Please."

"I'll give you something to cry about!" Mitch kicked my stomach, and my body turned, making me land on my stomach.

Fight back.

I can't.

You can't or you won't?! Learn the difference, Mae, and stop being a coward.

I couldn't: I was too scared. The saddest part about the whole situation was that I was actually the tiniest bit afraid that I would hurt Mitch. He put food on the table and a roof over our heads. He put clothes on our back, and whenever Zach needed new shoes because he had holes in his, Mitch would buy him a new pair.

I wasn't monster enough to hate Mitch, but I also wasn't naive enough to believe that he was a good guy. He wasn't a good guy, but he was our father. A parent we only knew.

When I lifted my head to look at Zach, I could tell he was tearing himself apart because he failed at protecting me. But I saw it like this: I'd rather take the beating because I knew I could handle it, both mentally and physically.

I knew I could take it.

No matter how damaged I got...or how painful it was, I'd always get back up. My main motivation was my brother. He didn't know how badly I was hurting, just that I was. So, I'd lie to him.

Was I ever hurting? No. But was I really? Yes.

Did it feel like I was going to die? No. But did it really? Of course, if only you could feel what I felt.

Did I want to die? No. But did I really? Of course. Death would be simple, painless, but only to me.

The handcuffs mocked Zach as he tugged on them for his freedom. "We have school tomorrow," Zach spoke, and Mitch kicked me once more. I wrapped my left arm around my stomach as I laid on my right side, internally groaning from the pain.

"Do you see any markings on her face, motherfucker?" Mitch sneered. "Should I make some? Maybe they'll make her look real pretty." He walked to me, lifted me by my shirt, and slapped me across the face.