Author: beaniek4 PM
Lora has been an abuse victim for the past 2 years. She's not allowed to tell anyone, not even her best friend, Cade, about it. But when the abuse gets worse, she feels like she has no choice. Will calling for help make matters better or worse than they were before? Rating may go up later XDRated: Fiction K+ - English - Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 4 - Words: 4,433 - Reviews: 1 - Follows: 1 - Updated: 07-17-12 - Published: 06-17-12 - id: 3033058
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
My best friend, Cade, has always been there for me, through thick and thin. He'd help me with my problems and try to get me out of sticky and/or dangerous situations. We've been friends since 3rd grade, which was about 5 years ago, and, over time, our friendship has increased greatly, from being just friends to best friends forever. We tell each other everything. There are things that we don't share with one another, though. One of the things I can never tell anyone, not even him, is that my family isn't as great as I had told him they were. I had once told him that I have an awesome family, but, to tell the truth, I don't. It's actually terrible. My mom is a drunkard that likes to hit me, and my dad had died in a car wreck 2 years ago, which is what caused my mom to turn from loving to abusive. The other people in my family don't know anything about how hard my life is, because, every time they come over for holidays, such as Christmas, my mom acts all nice so they won't suspect anything.
Every day, I have to wear jackets to cover the bruises on my arms and black tights under my skirts or dresses to hide the bruises on my legs. My mom won't let me wear jeans, which, by the way, if fine by me. The reason she won't let me is because she thinks they look tacky on me. Also, I'm not allowed to wear shorts or capris, because they don't completely cover my legs.
Even though I hate make up, I have to wear some cover-up on my face to hide the bruises on my face. My mom doesn't slap or punch me very often, though. Usually, she'll hit my arms and/or legs with any hard object nearby. She only uses her hand when she can't find anything else to use. Although, most of the time, she does have something to use, since she drinks and smokes a lot. Sometimes, she hits me in the back with her wine bottle. Also, she sometimes burns me with the end of her lit cigarette. Because this has been going on for about 2 years, I'm used to the beatings I get almost every day. I used to cry every when I was hit, but, now, I don't.
Right now, I'm eating my dinner, which consists of a medium-sized piece of chicken, rice, and broccoli, on the couch, in front of the flat-screen TV that's in the living room. My mom isn't home, which is why I'm doing these things without any worry. My mom doesn't let me watch TV because she thinks I shouldn't waste my time watching TV and that I should just focus on my studies. She also doesn't let me eat on the couch, because she thinks I'll make a mess everywhere. It's not like it'll make a difference, though. The couch is already torn up in s few places, and there's a large stain from when my mom had accidentally broken the bottle of wine she had in her hand by smashing it against the coffee table that's right in front of the couch. The reason she had smashed the bottle against it was because she was so drunk that when she tried to hit me with the bottle, she missed and hit the coffee table instead.
When I hear the garage door opening, I quickly change the channel back to my mom's favorite channel, and then turn off the TV. I run over to the kitchen table and set my plate and glass down on the placemat and sit down in my chair. My mom comes in through the front door, says a swift hello, and then walks into her bedroom to put her stuff up. I sit quietly at the table as I eat the last piece of broccoli. I get up and put my dishes in the dishwasher and open the door to my bedroom. Just as I was about to step into my room, I hear my mom's shrill voice.
"Lora, come here, please!"
She must be in a good mood, because she usually never uses the word, please, with me.
I stiffly walk over to my mom's room and stand in her doorway. "Yes, mother?" I ask. She had told me to call her mother from now on or else I'll be punished.
My mom holds out a silver-colored bracelet.
"I need your help putting this on." I gently take the bracelet from her and immediately get to work. Just when I have the latch in place, the bracelet slips off of my mom's wrist and falls onto the floor. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, too.
My mom starts cussing at me as I try to process what had just happened. I come to the realization that my mom had just slapped me across the face for accidentally dropping her bracelet.
"Go to your room right now!"
I get up off the floor and run out of the room as fast as I can before my mom had the chance to slap me again.
I slam my bedroom door shut and lock it. I sigh a little and lie down on my bed.
My mom wasn't always like this. She used to be so kind, especially to me. She used to play with me, read to me, and actually be nice to me. But all of that was before my dad had died. I wish that he never did. I bet my mom would still be nice if he hadn't of been in that car accident. I remember how, after me and my mom had gotten home from the hospital the night my dad had died, my mom had grabbed me by my hair and had yelled, "It's your fault he's dead!" Then she had thrown me to the ground and stomped into her room, slamming the door shut behind her. I was still in shock from witnessing my dad dying in the hospital bed that I hadn't even cared about what my mom had just done to me. It was like my mind was in some other world, but I was still able to know what was going on in reality.
Sometimes, I wish I had a new mother. Maybe my life would be happier if I did.
A little while later, I quietly leave my room and head into the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I'm done with that, I start brushing my hair. My hair is dirty blond, like my dad's, while my mom's hair is black. I have my mom's green eyes instead of my dad's bright blue ones. Sometimes I think that my mom is mean to me because I sort of look like my dad, and she can't bear to remember what had happened to him.
After I finish brushing my hair, I tiptoe back to my room and slowly close the door behind me. I jump onto my bed and pull the covers over myself. Then I close my eyes and fall asleep.