Intro:
No one really knows the whole story. I mean sure, Mom had heard parts of it before, but the more times you tell a story, the more times you forget parts, leave out details. And trust me when i say, i have told this story more times than i have blinked.
Chapter 3: (Warning: Graphic content and violent scenes!)
One of my earliest memories as a child is learning to play the flute. I started when i was five.
I know it's young but my parents had high hopes of me becoming a professional by the time i was a teenager. And when i say this, i mean my dad did.
You see, my so called 'father' was a part of the whole music/band phase thing, and he still is.
You'd think this would benefit me, yeah, because he could help me practice and make me the best flautist in the country. But that wasn't quite the case.
Up until around age eight, my love for the instrument had already been and gone, and it wasn't coming back. But this didn't stop my so called parent from forcing me to play.
I used to be a very stubborn child. Didn't want to clean my room, didn't want to do my choars.
I absoloutley hated people being mean to Niall. I would rage the second anyone made a snarky comment aimed at him. I just couldn't handle or tollerate people being horrible in general.
As i said before, i was forced to play the flute, let me tell you how. My 'dad' liked to play a game for his own self entertainment and ammusmemt.
And it was called abuse.
At age nine i distinctly remember learning to play 'Ode to joy' on the flute. It was easy, and a happy song. But the title of the song nor the genre reflected my practice of it at home.
I guess it's an opinion whether it's bad to beat your own children or not. But even if you do think it's ok, you must have some limits, am i right?
Where should you stop?
A hand? A belt? A block of wood?
It doesn't matter
Because by age nine, i had been beaten and abused by all of these things and more.
I had been punched, slapped, stomped on, threatened, verbally and mentally abused. And not just by anyone.
But by my own Dad.
And we all know, for every game, there are rules. Let me run you through his.
One wrong note - One slap across the back of the legs/butt
Wrong timing - Hit across the face
Any crying or complaining - locked in a room with no food or any other surprise punishment.
The worst part of it all was the lying. I think i heard the sentence "where did that bruise come from" more than i heard my own name as a child.
"I fell" or "Um, i don't remember" were usually my go-to replies.
And it wasn't because i didn't want to get my dad in trouble, or i wanted to make a cover up.
But with every mark, came another reason not to tell.
"You'll only make it worse for yourself Layla." Every time i heard this i felt sick. It wasn't worth more abuse. I couldn't take it.
"Do you want me to go to jail? Because if i do, you'll have no one." I always came to the conclusion it was this, or foster care.
The court made me live with dad after the divorce, and mom got Niall. I guess it made sence because Niall and i only shared the same mom, not dad.
I was too scared to tell mom about anything even though we were close. I did see her quite often whenever she wasn't in Ireland.
Mom and Niall travelled to Mullingar a lot because they wanted to ensure Niall got given a place in a school as an exchange student when he got a bit older.
Aparently travelling to the area often from a young age looked good on the application. This is where Niall got his irish accent from.
After i finally coughed up to mom about the abuse at sixteen, she built a court case against Matt to make me live with her and Niall instead. By the time i was sixteen, i had been abused for ten years.
And i was happy.
Until, six months later when mom met up with Matt to talk about everything. They had 'a laugh'. She said it was just like 'the old days'.
The day mom sat me down to tell me my abusive father was moving back into our house, was the worst day of my life.
"He's changed Layla, he really is trying. Please just give him a chance."
She wasn't there. She will never understand what it felt like. To have that living, constant fear inside of you. Every minute of everyday.
Because i was so young when the abuse started, i didn't know any better. So i thought that the enviroment i lived in was normal.
It was only when i stepped away from my passed life, to live with mum, that i realised, this doesn't happen to other people. Well atleast is not supposed to.
I learnt and taught myself after years of being spat on by my own dad, that it costs nothing to be nice.
Eight years earlier--
"Clean your fucking room and find your key before six o'clock or i will murder you."
I run into my room, out of habit slamming the door behind me. There were those few seconds where i really stopped and thought to myself: 'I'm going to die. My own father is going to actually kill me.'
I know that slamming doors in his house is one of the worst moves you can make, but i didn't mean to, i was just so angry.
Yesterday i leant MY house key to dad because he managed to lose his when he was out drinking a few nights ago. And after going out drinking again last night, he lost mine too.
Because he was drunk when returning home (the next morning aka this morning) he claimed he never took my key in the first place.
Him now being hungover and angry was not a good combonation. Mixed with the fact that it was 'my fault' because MY key was "MY responsibility"
-
The loud footsteps and not to mention quick, are now speeding down the hall. (This is the way to my room.) This sound is familiar. And i hate it.
Thinking fast, i run to my door getting ready to push from the inside. I plant my feet into the ground and lean with all my weight onto the wooden door frame.
Within seconds, the footsteps are much louder, they are faster now.
Suddenly, everything stops. The silence is worse than the noise.
Not a single sound is touching my eardrums but the fast, heavy breaths i'm breathing.
Not moving i feel my legs start to give in. My whole body shaking so much standing is unbearable.
Still not a sound.
The next thing i remember is the taste of blood, the door had been swung open at such force it had hit me in the face.
My vision blurred i look up to see my dad standing infront of me, his face centimeters from mine. Noticing my breaths are no longer heavy, but are shallow.
After blinking multiple times it then comes to my attention that his hands are wrapped around my neck.
I stood with my back being pushed up against a wall, choking.
"If you slam one more fucking door in my fucking house, the next time you will open your eyes, it will be six feet under dirt!"
I nod forcefully not understanding what he means but at this point i will do anything for him to release me from his grip.
I start to feel my eyes closing and my body become weak, colapsing.
Suddenly i feel his hands pull away from my neck before seeing him storm out of the room.
Falling to the floor, still struggling to breathe i start to take loud, wheezing breaths.
It's as if my wind pipe has closed up.
The floor is cold.
I reach up to my nose to touch it and then look back at my hand.
It's covered in blood.
I don't know whether to cry or not, so much had just happened and i am in so much shock that my body is completley stiff. I can't move.
There isn't a worse feeling in the world.
END OF CHAPTER 3.
Fuck this was really hard to write because a lot/most of this chapter is actually based on a true story for meee. I switched around parts and stuff tho coz don't really feel like telling ppl my full blown life story
I wanted her to have a rough background because i know a lot of people that have gone through/are going through shit, and hates reading books where the girl always has such a perfect background...
ANYWAYS I WANTED TO SAY I HAVN'T POSTED IN SO LONG BECAUSE MY PHONE GOT STOLEN ON HOLIDAY SO I COULDN'T WRITE. BUT I MADE IT WORK IN THE END YAY.
This chapter was longggg boii. But chapter 4 was so fun to plan so i cant wait to upload it tmrw!! Omg this ending is so long kk you r probs all bored now rip byeeeeeeee
-Hannah xox