18 Years Prior
"Mommy. Mommy what's wrong?" I inquired as I slunk down the hall to the sound of my mother's tears. I was five, just a child. I had gone to bed, unable to sleep, thinking too much, leaving my mother in the kitchen to go through the mail and tidy up before she herself turned in for the night. I had heard her gasp, something shatter, and then sobs. Without hesitation I jumped out of bed and let my bare feet slap on the floor.
I entered our small kitchen to see my mother, on the ground, curled up, tears and sobs racking her entire body. Her hand was bleeding and glass was shattered next to her. There were letters all across the floor, but the one closest to her caught my eye. It read:
To Alicia Matthews.
Dear Mrs. Matthews,
We are quite sorry to inform you that your husband James Matthews died in an explosion today in battle. We would like to inform you he did save many lives...
I couldn't read on. First of, the words got too big, and second, my mind just couldn't grasp the concept that my father had passed away. My father, the kind man who had promised me he would return. The man with the blond hair and scar running the length of his face. The man with the crooked smile. He had promised me.

I cried with my mother, that whole night. We sat there crying, unable to believe that he was gone.

That he ceased to exist.

We went on with our days, but we were more hollow, just shells of our former selves. The letters stopped coming. He was really gone.

He was awarded many medals, and his funeral was large, all expenses paid for by someone I didn't care to think about. I cried for weeks after, for months.

After that, the years grew worse.

I began to get bullied, for my size, for my hand-me-down clothes, for my parents. I was bullied for being ugly, and I began to believe it myself. The words echoed in my head for years, worthless, useless, ugly, stupid, gay... All of them sad excuses to get a reaction, to make me hurt. Some of them rude and uncalled for.

Also, my mother took it upon herself to get remarried, to a twenty-year-old man, mind you. He was only ten years older than me when they got remarried. I couldn't take it.

As if that was bad enough, he was abusive.

When my mother was out, doing whatever the fuck she did, he attacked me. He called me those words that the kids at school did, he beat me black and blue, until tears jumped from my eyes and blood broke through my skin. It got so bad, kids at school took it upon themselves to make it worse. They joined in on the beating, those words, oh those words! They echoed in my mind through the darkest times.

When I turned twelve, my mother died in a car accident, and somehow, miraculously, my step father survived. Without a scratch, may I mind you. Upon his arrival home, he did not mercifully ditch me and leave me for social workers. Oh no. He took it upon himself to blame me for the car accident, saying my mother had been on the phone with me and that's why the other car hit them.

The beatings grew worse, until bones began to break. I would walk into school, unable to write or walk, and the teachers would rush me to the hospital and get me all patched up. My step father showed up, acted surprise, wondered why I was there and said he would do anything to make it better.

When we got home, the beatings got worse.

I resorted to self-harm and anorexia, giving in to the words my step-father and classmates had called me. I relished in the blood that stained my arms as the blade dug into my skin. I would hide them with long, baggy sweatshirts.

They found the scars though. They laughed and made fun of me. The "emo" chick. The bitch. The loser. They made me hurt myself more. They turned me into a kid with the ribs you could see through shirts. Bones sticking out, sucken eyes and hollow cheeks.

They made fun of that. My step-father beat me harder, saying I should eat.

They got so bad, that I ran away after graduation, went to college for a few years only to drop out. I couldn't find something I was passionate about, nothing really hit my heart. I worked as a secretary for some high-paying company.

I hated my job and I had made very few friends so far. I mean, there were the people who I took lunch with everyday, but I wasn't close with anyone. The tied up hair and skirt-suit was not working for me. High heels and light make-up.

The only good thing about my life, was my step-dad was far, far, far away, and unsure of where I was.

I began to eat again, and stopped the cutting. But I had harmed myself so those scars would be a constant reminder of what I went through, and my tiny figure with harsh points would remind me to. I wish I didn't have those scars, I wish I had a normal body.

Notes

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