A/N: hey, i know it has been ages, like months since i have posted anything, but here is something i came up with. Ok i need professional help after writing this, i will admit it. Leave behind a review and happy reading :)
Things Can Only Get Better, Right?
Things can only get better, at least that's what my Mum says whenever something goes wrong. She first said it when I was ten and auditioning for the school nativity play. Like all of the other little girls, I wanted to be Mary but Laura from other class got to be her instead. I came home and cried, saying how it wasn't fair. I was better than Laura and Miss Jones only picked her because Laura stayed behind in playtime to sharpen Miss Jones' colouring pencils. I cried at how I was given the role of the star and how I didn't even have one single line. I just stood there in a white dress, while the three kings pointed at me. Mum gathered me in her arms and rocked me. She said that maybe there was a reason I didn't get picked to be Mary. She said the star was the most important role in the whole play. I looked at her through blurry eyes and asked her how the star is the most important part when it has no lines. She smiled at me and said that without the star, the kings would not know how to find the baby Jesus and present him with the gifts. She said the star had guided them and the world to that stable. Without that star, no one would know who Jesus was and no one ever would. "Things can only get better" she chuckled. I sat there and thought about it, realised that I should be grateful for even getting the part.
When the day of the production arrived, I realised how lucky I was to be given the role of the star. Laura was given a very boring blue dress, where as I got a shiny white one and they even put tinsel in my hair. Everyone said how pretty I looked, how radiantly I smiled when I stood there, proud and confidant. I saw my mum in the audience clapping along with everyone else, a huge smile on her face. I remember that day so clearly. It is forever embedded on my mind. As a week later, mum stopped smiling.
Six years later, I clamp the pillow over my face, blocking out their voices. They were arguing again, well Jason was doing the shouting, Mum was just pleading with him to stop. She thinks sending me upstairs when he comes home drunk makes me ignorant as to what is really going on. She thinks I don't notice when I come down stairs hours later, and see her fat lip, her black eye, and the bruises on her arms. I ask what happened but she just shakes her head at me. "Things can only get better" she says as she starts cleaning up her own blood that has seeped into the wooden flooring. Jason wanders in and tuts when he sees the mess on the floor. He stinks of booze. He eyes wander over me and a malicious smirk appears on his face. He has never laid a hand on me but my skin still crawls with revulsion. Mum avoids eye contact with him and carries on scrubbing. He barks at her to hurry up and she starts scrubbing faster. I want to scream at her stand up to him, to not give him the satisfaction, but it is too late. He has beaten it all out of her. Jason lazily walks past me, brushing my arm with his fingers as he does. I glare at him, pouring all of my hatred into my eyes. He may have beaten the fight out of my mum, but he will not beat it out of me. His eyes harden at my glare and his jaw tightens. In a sick way, I thrive on these moments. They give me some satisfaction that I will not be intimidated. His hand grips my arm, fingers digging in, but I hold my glare, daring him to look away first. With him and me, it is a cat and mouse of who is in control. Something wet is running down my arm and I inhale a sharp
gasp of pain when I realise it is blood. His nails have cut through my skin. He tears his eyes from mine and looks down at the warm, red liquid trickling down my skin. He looks at it like it is sweet nectar and he is a starving man. He inhales it and his eyes flicker to my face. I keep it defiant. My arm rips from his grasp and he gives a chuckle. I had lost. I had showed weakness by removing my arm. To him, it meant I was afraid.
Mum keeps sending me to my room more and more. His violence is escalating. The glass coffee table was shattered and I saw her picking the glass out of her forearms the other day. A chunk of hair was missing from the top of her head and I saw her ears that were once pierced looked as though the earrings had been torn out. I heard Jason scream at mum that when he has finished with her he will move on to me. I wish he would. I wish he would give mum a break, I wish he would leave her alone and inflict his torture on someone else. Someone could take it. Someone who would fight back. Someone like me.
The door of my bedroom opens. I don't look around to see who it is. I have expected this for a long time now. I knew he was bound to get sick of all our games. I realises my time is up. I can hear panting. I don't want to look at his face. I keep my eyes trained on the wall as the heavy footsteps thunder across my floor. I can feel him at the side of my bed towering over me. "I will not be afraid, I will not be afraid" I chant to myself. But I am. He raises a single finger and stokes along my cheek. My body tenses and I screw my eyes shut, willing myself not to vomit. He chuckles softly against. His hand moves down my arm, slowly, lazily, like he is relishing the moment. I clamp my mouth together, refusing to let my scream out. I can feel it building and building. "I will not be afraid, I will not be afraid" I chant in my head. Suddenly his hand is gone and he gives another chuckle against my ear. He can smell my fear, he is thriving on it. I realises that is what wanted all along.
Mum glares at me with wild eyes. Her straw like greying hair is wild. She throws a bag and me and yells to pack the first things I find. I have waited forever for this day. We are finally leaving. We are finally free. I almost jump for joy. I run round my rooms throwing things into a small duffel bag. Socks, underwear, books, clothes, hairbrush. I run downstairs to get some tins of food. Who knows, we could be on the road for a while. I run into the kitchen and stop dead at the sight in front of me.
On the floor is Jason. His steel grey eyes bore lifelessly into mine. His chest is ripped open and the word Monster is carved jaggedly into his chest. Blood seeps out the flesh like paint dripping off a canvas. A ruby knife is lying by the side of him. His mouth is open with almost a look of surprise. His black hair is coated with a scarlet sheen. My lips can't help but twitch into a sadistic smile. It almost looked like a piece of artwork. Revenge is beauty. "Things can only get better" a voice whispers in my head. "Indeed they can" I mutter. "Indeed they can."
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