A/N ayoo this is sunny after about six months after finishing this story. im editing it and shiz, so hopefully the writing will be better. lols. whether youve just decided to read this incredibly cliche and badly plotted out story or youre reading what happiness looks like/my one and only and have decided to check out my first book, let me tell you:
its pretty bad. not gonna lie. but hopefully a bit of editing to the writing (not the plot) will make it a tad bit more enjoyable.
enjoyy. c;
>>Ali's POV<<
I watched the red liquid fall from my arms, dripping with sweat and adrenaline rushing through my entire body.
This is what cutting felt like, the pleasure and rush that comes to you is so addictive, that once you find yourself doing it, you won't be able to stop.
Even though this behavior is absolutely and utterly satisfying, people have managed to quit the grasp of this addiction, because they found something that makes them want to stop.
But in my entire nineteen years, I've never ecountered anything that made me regret this action, nothing that makes me want to end the satisfaction.
Now, in the present, the bloody and rusty blade slipped from my grip, slicing the thin skin on my thumb as it tumbled to the ground with a soft clatter.
I opened my eyes, laughing. If anybody saw me in this state, they would think that I was a psychopath, perhaps just mentally insane, laughing at my own pity. I wonder how shamed my mother must be of me.
"God, I'm sorry for my sins, but can you tell mommy something? Mommy, oh, mommy I miss you, please wake up," I remember pleading to God, kneeling at the foot of my bed when I was ten.
The door suddenly creaked open loudly, the hinges rusty and ready to snap the moment somebody applies too much pressure on it.
Shit! I ducked instinctively, covering my head with my frail arms, knowing that my father's beatings were usually aimed towards the head.
I braced myself, my teeth wanting to chatter in fear, though I clamped it shut, preparing myself for the familiar punch to the top of my head.
Moment past, turning into seconds, into minutes. I knew sometimes my father liked to take time staring at my pitiful self before truly letting the physical pain begin.
I shifted my index finger away from my eyes, allowing me to see through the small crack. I sighed loudly as I saw my lazy cat standing at the doorway, whiskers twitching as though he were laughing at me.
"Sparklez, come here," I whispered, beckoning with my non-bloody hand. He padded over to me, sniffing me once before turning around and bounding away from me.
I watched his bouncy tail trail out the doorway before letting myself regain my senses. "Oh mom... I don't know what to do without you," I whispered into the air of my bathroom, leaning my head back onto the chipping walls.
I remember exactly nine years ago when I was ten, the day my mother died, just as vividly as I would remember yesterday.
I woke that night, listening to an ear-splitting scream, followed by a loud crash.
I tried to close my eyes and convince myself that it was just part of the nightmares that I had every night, but I couldn't shake the thought.
I shakily slipped out from underneath the covers before tip-toeing down the hallway to reach my mother's bedroom.
Adrenaline and fear pumped through my veins, and I took a deep breath before turning the handle slowly and pushing it open a crack.
"Mommy...?" I murmured, poking my head slowly into her room.
At first, all I felt was utter confusion. I couldn't comprehend the gory and murderous scene spread out in front of me, even though it was obvious, regardless of the fact I may have only been ten.
There was a knife puntured in my mother' stomach, and I knew that this was a murder, as the window was cracked and broken as well.
I scrambled over to her, ignoring the sharp pains of walking over the broken glass. I saw her eyes glazed over in agony; she was suffering.
"MOMMY! WHAT DO I DO?!" I shrieked, leaping up and messily going through my mother's drawers, attempting to find her phone to dial 911.
Before I could pinpoint where her phone was, she weakly grasped my arm, her face paling and her fingers seeming colder than ever,
"Ali, baby... It's okay, I'm okay, I promise. I love you more than anything, and I'm... sorry that I can't be there for you to watch you grow up," she whispered, her face painted with an expression so painful that I could barely take a glimpse at it.
"No! Mommy! You're going to be there for me! You promised!" I screamed, wailing with salty tears painting my cheeks.
"Ali, I love y-you.. so much... Dont cry... I'll dream about you, okay? I promise," she whispered even quieter, struggling to keep her eyes open.
She cupped my cheek, and after a few seconds, I felt her entire body shudder, her hand turn icy cold, and her beautiful blue eyes stare into nothingness.
I dont know how long I sat there, just staring, not knowing what to do.
I couldn't even cry anymore.
I couldn't even say anything when my dad beat me that night.
I heard him call my name, from downstairs, and I whispered softly, "Dad..."
"I brought Chinese! I know baby that you and mommy love it!" he called, stepping up the creaky wooden stairs.
When he came upstairs, his giant grin immediately faded, and I saw a mixture of emotions in his eyes, sadness, shock, disbelief, but most of all, anger.
I didn't remember how it all happened, my face was indifferent, not changing expression at his horrifying words. He eventually got angry at my lack of emotion, that he decided the only way that I would show any was by physically beating me.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU DO ANYTHING, ALI?! MAYBE IF YOU HAD CALLED THE POLICE SHE WOULD STILL BE BREATHING!" He shrieked, pushing me into walls and kicking me in the gut, all while throwing violent punches at me. My fragile ten year old body couldn't take all the pain that I was feeling inside and outside.
"YOU'RE NOT WELCOMED IN THIS HOUSEHOLD ANYMORE! I DONT CARE IF YOU BURN IN HELL, OR STARVE TO DEATH, JUST GET OUT OF MY LIFE!" He yelled so loud that I felt the ground shudder.
I slipped into my room, shutting the door softly, not wanting to anger him more. Tears and blood stained my shirt, while several bruises were already forming.
I grabbed my backpack and shoved the little I had into it, before leaving the house quickly and quietly.
I hid behind the trees in the backyard, listening to the owls begin to hoot, marking the beginning of the treacherous, cold night.
I heard the screen door open with a loud clang, and I hurriedly scurried farther away, knowing that my father would try to find me, but not with warm welcoming hands.
I ran as fast as I could into the forest, tripping over roots and branches and thorns. They scratched against my bloody face while irritating the already throbbing bruises scattered around my body.
Suddenly, my foot hit a rock, and I went tumbling down a steep and littered hill, all while a loose branch caught in my arm and cut a deep gash starting from my wrist all the way to my shoulder.
I screamed out in pain, not daring to look at the effect of the branch. The last thing I saw was a beautiful moth land on my finger.
When I woke, I found that I was listening to steady machines tracking my heart rates, a throbbing forehead attacking me.
A nurse walked in, realized I was awake, and came walking over to me, flipping through her clipboard papers.
"Ali! Great! You're awake, you're father is signing your discharge papers, you'll be out of here in no time, make sure you dont take your bandage off, so it won't get infected." she said too quickly for my pained head to understand entirely.
My father? Why would they let my dad take me home if he was why I'm here?
Then I realized what I should have been aware of before. They didnt know. They didnt know my mother was dead, they didnt know my father beat me. Even if they did, why would they even care?
From then on, i knew i was alone, and I had to fight my way through this ugly life without even my mother at my side, like how she promised.
When I walked out, I heard my dad talking to multiple doctors, saying that he would take good care of me. He sounded so convincing, that I believed him.
Liar.
When I got home, my dad immediately ripped the entire bandage off, and shoved me against a wall. He did everything to hurt me, including pouring vinegar over my deep wound, not allowing it to heal, which resulted in a nasty and unnatural white scar.
And from that day onwards, I was done. With my life, with trying to smile, with trying to look at the bright side.
I was only ten years old, and I was done.
I am nineteen now, this has been my life for nine years.
I am alone.
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ayee it's edited. ;o only the first chapter though, and it took me a bit less than an hour. This is gonna be a long process.
Votes and Comments greatly appreciated!
-Sunny