Broken Grace (1)

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Chapter One

The time comes when all of us have to make a decision. A critical, life-changing decision. One that alters our present, past, and future. My decision-making time came too soon. My mother was on life support. She wasn't able to make the huge decision of living, or dying. She was pretty much brain-dead and I was the only one to end her suffering. Father was gone. Long gone. History. Non-existent. I was the only one to make this call. Kill her, or put her through more unbearable pain. But losing her, meant unbearable pain for me. I wasn't sure I could handle it. In fact, I was almost positive I couldn't.

She had always been there for me. Wait, no. That's one of the biggest lies in the history of my family. She was either MIA or wasted. She pickled her liver and then passed out. Then, she would bitch about how bad her hangover was and I would have to put up with all of her crap. I was sick of her, but now, when she needed me most, I was there for her, but she never was for me. She was never there for anything. The only thing she was faithful to was the bar down the street. She would always show up alone, but leave with someone new each time.

They were all the same: big, huge, muscly men, usually too drunk to notice anything. When they got bored with her, they came to me, looking for some satisfaction. I either had to put out, or get beat. I tried to defy once, and I ended up with a split lip and a black eye. They would grab me roughly and hurt me. Once, one shredded my new shirt. That pissed me off, because I never got new things.

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"Come here, girly," a slurred voice called, as he grabbed my arm. I shook him off.

"Get away from me," I said.

"Now don't be like that," he said, trying to unbutton my jeans. I pushed him back and tried to maneuver around him. He punched me in the gut. I sucked in the air that couldn't get to my lungs fast enough. I was paralyzed. He fumbled for a moment, but got the zipper all the way down. Shit. I was in a thong.

"That is what I like."

"Please," I whispered. He slapped me across the face. It stung. I tugged my loose shirt off with trembling hands. I was about to take my thong off, but then he said, "Come here, bitch." He pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top of me. He crushed his lips to mine, moving his tongue all around my mouth, exploring. I moaned unwillingly. I was crying now. The pain was unbearable.

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I hated myself for this. I wished I could be stronger, but I just wasn't. I was disgusted at the fact that I had lost my virginity at the age of fourteen. When I went to school the next day, I felt like that if my friends knew, then I would be more of an outcast than I already was. I had dark, curly, black hair, and big green eyes. My skin was as pale as the snow we got in the winter, and I was as thin as a twig. Some might say I was beautiful, but others would say I was ghastly and haunting. Most people tended to avoid me, which didn't exactly boost my confidence. By the time I was seventeen, I was about as socially awkward as a hermit. I took to myself and no one took to me. I sat in the back of class, each day, hoping I wasn't knocked up. I wasn't cut out to be the hooker type, and I didn't really know how fertile I was. I supposed that after three years of this sexual torture, I wasn't gonna get pregnant very easily.

Now, I had to kill my mother. She got AIDS and contracted, what seemed like to me, every possible disease known to man. All of her organs (except the reproductive ones, it seemed) failed on her, and that is why she is dying in this hospital.

"Sign here," the doctor said to me. I was eighteen now, and I could make my own choices, even my mother's choices. I put my John Hancock on the little black line and they pulled the plug. I watched as her heart rate plummeted and finally, she died.

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