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Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

TW: Physical Abuse, self harm

I watch him stagger closer to me which makes me move back slowly with every step he takes.

"Did you lock this door?" he asks while still looking at me with that evil glint in his eye. I shake my head quickly "Liar," he snaps.

"I didn't, I swear," I say looking at him.

"You know how I feel about liars," he says glaring at me.

"I know you don't like them and I'm not lying, I didn't lock the door I swear, I swear down on mammas grave," I say looking at him. My eyes start to well up. I hate swearing on her grave over insignificant little things and this was one.

"Don't you dare lie on her grave," he says pointing at me with the hand that had his beer bottle in "don't you dare," he snarls.

"I...I'm not," I stutter out. He takes two huge steps towards me and without any warning he backhands me with his left hand which is unfortunately the hand that is holding the bottle. I slowly sit up from being hit and put my hand to my cheek. I let out a small sigh as I know I now had another bruise to cover up with makeup and I only had a little left.

"Don't you fucking lie to me," he says standing over me "Do you think your mother would like you lying?" he hisses as he gets in my face. I shake my head as a tear runs down my cheek "what the fuck are you crying for?" he asks.

"I...I'm not," I say quickly wiping it. He chuckles nastily then grabs my hair making me face him.

"What have I just told you?" he asks.

"Y...you don't like liars," I answer.

"And what did you just do?" he asks. I felt myself slowly start to cry again as I now knew that I wasn't going to go to bed without a proper beating tonight.

"Lie," I slowly answer. He drags me up from my bed by my hair and pulls me in front of my mirror.

"What are you doing right now?" he asks, shoving me practically into the mirror.

"C...crying," I stutter my answer again.

"Why?" he asks.

"I don't know," I answer dumbly when it's obvious why I’m crying, telling him only makes him angrier.

"I'll give you something to cry about shall I," and as soon as he says that. He throws me to the floor and starts to kick me. I curl myself up into a ball trying to protect some part of me. He starts to stomp on my head with his foot, a couple of times before stopping. He sighs and mutters something under his breath. I then hear him leave my room. I slowly peer out of the defensive shell I have made with my hands and look to see he isn't in my room but I could hear water running which scares me the most.

I get up and try to run when I feel a strong hand on my back and drag me into my bathroom by my green t-shirt "dad no please" I scream "please," I cry. He grabs hold of my hair and then I see the bath filling up with water. My eyes widen a little and I push myself away from the bathtub with my feet. I could hear the frustration in his voice when he tells me to stop it and he soon gives up as he throws me forward causing me to land on the floor at the side of the bath. He lunges forward as quick as he can and grabs me by my hair again and the next thing I see is the water staring back at me and my head heading straight into it.

The coldness of the water hits me like a lightning bolt. I don't have time to hold my breath so all I can see is the white porcelain of the bath and the silver circles that are heading towards the surface. He drags me out and I gasp for air, my vision blurry. All I can hear is him carrying on at me telling me I’m a disappointment and my mother will never be proud of me as I am disgrace to the family.

He pushes my head forward again this time I manage to take in some air but also this time he holds me for longer.

"Please no more," I cry after the fourth time of him nearly drowning me. I nearly choke on the water I have swallowed. He looks at me with so much hatred and finally lets go of my hair. He glares down at me as I sit up with my arm on the bath trying to recapture my breath.

"Have you learnt your lesson?" he asks. I nod as I find it hard to breathe let alone speak "What," he shouts.

"Y...yes," I manage to say but it comes out as a whisper. He punches me hard in the head and I fall on the floor. I figure he didn't hear me answer.

"You ...are...such...a...ignorant...little...bitch," with every word he kicks me using the sink as support "I...asked...you...a...question" he adds and stops kicking me causing me to get on my hands and knees. I spit out the blood that has caked my mouth.

"Yes" I say hoping it comes out louder and thankfully it did even though it killed me.

"Good" he pauses "you lie to me again and I will punish you a lot worse do you understand me" I nod and again (you'd think I would of learnt from five minutes ago) he starts booting me but this time in my stomach and this time he didn't have to rely on the sink for support. "Why are you so fucking ignorant? Answer me when I am fucking talking to you, you stupid fucking little shit" he shouts as he lays into me.

"Yes" I finally cry out "I understand" I say through my tears of pain.

"Good" and he walks out leaving me there covered in blood.

My body hurt yet felt numb. I look around the bathroom to see he isn't here. I had heard my bedroom door slam shut and then another door. All I’m hoping for now is that he won't come back like he has done many more times before.

He started hitting me a year ago and it only just got this bad six months ago but he has started being nasty to me six months after my mother died. He would insult me whenever he could. At first I thought it was just because he had a bad day at work or something but I started to notice things in his behaviour that didn’t make sense. He'd eat things he hates and he'd do things he would never normally do.

Sometimes it feels like I’m living with two different dads instead of one; a nasty dad and a warm kind loving dad. It’s the warm loving dad I had this morning. I always know when it's the nasty dad as he calls me Megs, and well the one that is actually nice to me calls me either Megan or sweetheart sometimes sweets for short. The nasty dad has never called me any of them, not once. The nice dad hates the name Megs; he thinks it should be a name for some sort of product or a pet.

I finally decide to get up but when I do I collapse back down. My hands don't seem to want to hold my body up. I try again and force myself to stand up. Once up, I walk over to my bathroom cabinet, take out my bandages and a cloth and walk back over to the bath. I figure what's the point in wasting it may as well use it to clean myself up.

After cleaning the cuts on my face I walk back into my room holding my side, my ribs hurt and feel as if they’re broken or something but it isn't like I can go to a hospital they’ll ask questions, and well my dad is my dad either way and I love him. I get changed into some clean night clothes and walk over to my bed with the bandages and damp cloth.

Opening my bedside drawer the feelings I always feel when doing this came rushing into me. I look down at the box I keep my saviour from all this pain in. Once I take the box out of the drawer I lay it on my bed and open it to see the two and a half inch blade that have been saving me from this pain and moving it onto something else. I reach out for it and take it into my left hand and slowly run my right index finger down it to see if it’s still sharp and thankfully it is.

Holding out my right arm in front of me and looking at it and thinking about what I was about to do gave me some freedom from this pain but not enough to keep me from going another day without breaking down in front of one of my friends. There were already some old and new markings on my wrist. The ones I had made last night weren't here though. The ones I made last night were on my left inner thigh. I stare at my wrist for a minute before I put the blade to my skin and press down dragging it across and holding down even harder until finally I couldn't drag it across anymore skin. I watch the blood slowly seep out of my skin and I let a breath I didn't know I was holding escape my lips and I close my eyes as a small smile goes across my face as right now I’m in control of my pain. I open my eyes and look back at the new fresh cut I had made and make a couple more, I don't feel completely free. I never really do but at this moment I feel a different type of pain, a pain I enjoy, a pain that distracts me, pain that I control. My flesh retracts after every cut I make trying to cover up and heal the break in itself.

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