The girl behind the hood

The

Girl

Behind

The

Hood

By: Savannah Roberts

Chapter one -

I awoke to a searing pain in my ribs. It felt like a knife had been driven into my ribs and had been twisted all the way around. I lifted the white shirt up over the pained spot. It was a bruise. It was purple, black, blue, and splotchy red. I whimpered slightly as I ever so gently brushed my silky fingers over it. It hurt horribly. But it wasn't the worst that had happened. I shuttered at the memory, unconsciously stroking the scare from the "accident."

This was nothing compared to that. The newly constructed bruise was from my father, as always - kicking me in the side and then tossing me down the stairs. It hurt tremendously but it wasn't the worse. I cringed at the memory. It was to awful to repeat.

Something I've realized over the twelve years - I'm seventeen - is that is they are drunk, the beatings are way worse. But when they're not, they tend to not care where I'm at or if I go hide at the park by a hidden hot spring that only I knew about. So when I see them with a bottle of Jack Daniels' or Vodka or just regular hard core Liquor, I tend to get petrified. But who wouldn't? Fortunately I have grown to be immune to showing them my pain. I never give a hint that I wish I could jump out of my body and jump off a cliff. This sometimes has its downfalls. Sometimes they want to see pain. So only then do I show them my pain. And if I don't on those occasions, they think they're being too easy on me and try to "punish" me further. And I can tell when these times are. I've learned over the years. Their eyes look distant and glazed over.

I popped back into present time and looked at the clock. Five fifty three A.M. I had about ten minutes to get ready. So I rushed over to my closet - ignoring the pain that ate at my ribs - and got dressed in a black pair of skinny jeans, a white tank-top, and a skin-tight, black hoodie that showed off my curves nicely. I brushed out my white blond scene styled hair - that I cut and styled myself - and put on make-up. Black eyeliner and mascara.

Slowly I tip toed down the stairs. Careful not to wake the drunks. I knew my body couldn't handle another beating for a while. I was at least grateful that school would give me a good eight hours before it would happen again.

I continued to tiptoe to the door as I slid on my black and red converse. I opened the door and walked out into the pouring rain. I wasn't allowed to have a car because I wasn't a "good teenager." I was the "Bitch." And "Bad girl." So I had to walk six miles to get to school. Where I was stereotyped as, "The freak." Can't Waite.

The rain was cold and hard on the bruises covering various parts of my body. I shivered. It could only be fifty degrees out. The wind was blowing hard and fast. And then, out of no were, a car hit a puddle. And it splashed all over me. I stood there frozen from shock. The car jolted to a stop. I felt almost scared as it stopped. A male figure got out. He was tall and had hair as black as the night sky. His eyes were emerald green and he looked no older than seventeen or eighteen. He was new here. I know every face even if they don't know me. And I didn't know him.

"I'm so sorry!" the male said with sincere apology in his thick, velvet voice. "Are you ok? Damn. You're soaked."

"I'm fi . . .fa . . . fine. " I stuttered with chattering teeth in the cold.

"You don't look it. Do you need a ride somewhere? It's the least I could do after that."

I shook my head.

"Were you headed?"

"The hi . . . high school."

"Really? I am too. I'm new. I'm Eric. Eric Troy. Who are you."