Title: Life Goes On
Author: musicloverx26
Rating: M; for domestic and child abuse, swearing, rape, violence, suicide attempt and mentions of prostitution.
Pairing: eventual Cat/Robbie
Prompt: arise from the ashes
Summary: If I had any say about it, my life would go on.
Disclaimer: I do not own Victorious.
Life Goes On
Cat's POV
My father was a monster.
Not a big scary monster like in the movies theaters with fangs. More like a scary man in a horror movie that does horrible stuff to his family and then leaves like it's no big deal.
I had to watch him, every day of my life, as he hurt my mom. He'd knock her to the ground as she cried out. He'd call her names and laugh as she flinched away from him. "Whore. Slut. You're not worth anything. Shut up, bitch." The words swam around in my head; echoing as images of him over my mother, her blood staining his hands played like a movie. Over and over until it made me sick to my stomach and vomit.
The one thing that gave me a little relief is that he'd never hurt my brother.
I don't know whether it was because my brother was different, or because my dad would not hurt another male; but whatever it was, I was grateful. Grateful that my brother would be safe; he didn't deserve any more hardship in his life. Grateful that one person could escape the torture that my father put us through.
So when the monster was done with my mother, he'd skip my brother and find me.
I took the hits in silence, staying motionless as he stood over me, exposed. I didn't even scream when he defiled me. I couldn't let my brother hear my screams; it would upset him and make him cry. I lived everyday in my house in silence, hoping and praying for the day that the monster would leave.
Each and every day was worse. The bruises got darker, there was more blood staining the floor.
He would rape me more and more frequently. Each time was longer and more painful than the last… and I just took it in silence.
"'C'mere, beautiful." He'd slur; his movements clumsy as the alcohol took over. He'd grab my arm, leaving ugly dark finger prints, and pulled my body to his. When I was younger, I tried to escape. It only angered him.
My body shut down as he pressed his lips to mine, his breath reeking of alcohol and his hands like electric shocks over my body. He wasn't gentle.
He would leave me in my bed; clothes ripped and laying in a pool of my own blood. Sometimes there was so much blood that I choked on it as it slid down my throat.
Every time I was surprised I was not dead… and I wished that I was.
Many times I tried to escape.
Once I stole liquor from my father when he was done with me and passed out on the couch. I thought that if I drank enough, I would either die or not be coherent enough to feel anything.
He found me, pushed me to the ground and pulled out a knife. "You think it's fun to steal from me?" He had snarled; the blade of the knife pushed deeper into my shoulder. The blood was flowing down my chest, under my shirt. He watched it, licking his lips as it flowed down the curve of my neck and under my shirt. The shirt ripped in his bare hands, leaving me in my training bra. He watched the blood, a violent red against my pale skin, as it made its way to my bellybutton. Then he bent down and ran his tongue along the path of blood, his eyes full of lust. I cringed slightly, causing his eyes to snap to my face. "You like that, don't you?" He had whispered. The next morning, in the early light of sunrise, he began the ritual of cutting me while he raped me.
Another time, I had tried to call social services; I had to get my brother out of there.
He found me; grabbing my hand that was holding the phone, and slammed it down on the receiver. "Who told you that you could make a phone call?" He asked, his voice a quiet whisper. I knew he was sober, and less likely to hurt me, but I shiver all the same. Before I could answer, he had me on the ground. He grabbed my head and slammed it on the ground; again and again until I could see stars and black spots. He laughed and left me there. My mother had found me. She had picked me up and cradled my head in her lap, singing to me quietly. "Why don't you run, honey?" She whispered to me, half hoping that I would hear and half that I wouldn't. I cried silently with her, praying to God that that monster would leave us.
It took two years; two of the longest and worst years of my life, but finally he left, leaving my mother bleeding on the floor and no money for us to live. I had to clean my mother's cuts and clean the blood off the front carpet; her tears of pain mixing with the tears of joy. I had to get a job.
I changed the locks and made sure he had no access to anything of ours. His stuff was packed up in boxes, thrown in the front yard, and set on fire. I wanted nothing of that creature near my family ever again. Our phone number was changed, and I even thought of changing our last names. My mother refused, for reasons that I didn't know, while I changed mine to my mother's maiden name: Valentine. It cost me $500 dollars and was completely worth it.
All this happened until I was 13. My life was in shambles, and no one could ever know. That was when I decided that I could overcome what that monster did to my family. I dyed my hair, starting going by my middle name, and made sure I was always in a good mood. Everyone called me crazy… what they didn't realize was that my behavior was keeping me from going crazy. No one would guess that the crazy girl with the flaming red hair could have any secrets or horrors in her life.
I started working to help my mom. Any and all money that we could get was a blessing; a beacon saying that we would survive another day.
Random men would call our house after school, asking for me. They used my work name: Valerie. I'd shudder, but put on my short skirt and the see-through tank top. I'd kiss my brother on the forehead, telling him to be good for mom, and then drive to the caller's address.
Their warm hands never gave me any pleasure or disgust; I was numb to the feeling. Numb to the horrors that I put myself through because of what my father had done. They'd strip me down and have their way, not caring that I was 13. When they were done, they'd place money in my hand and pass out. It was usually $100 dollars a job. With shaking hands I'd get dressed and leave, traveling to the next destination.
This happened every night.
No one knew; my mom thought I worked at a local store as a cashier and never asked why my paycheck came in cash. I had lost all my friends, my father had made sure of that; so no one bothered me at school.
It was my job to bring my family out of the horrible place my father left us in. The money paid for my mother's therapy and for my brother's special medication. And by the end of my freshman year of high school, I had saved enough to afford tuition to Hollywood Arts.
It was my dream, to be a famous actress. And getting into HA was the best way I could achieve this dream. When I told my mother I had been accepted, she cried. The silent tears slipped down her shallow cheeks as she told me how proud she was that her daughter was going to achieve her dream.
I had five jobs that night.
I made new friends, ones that wouldn't know me from… before. They knew me as Cat Valentine; girl with the flaming red hair, crazy actions, and an amazing voice. No one even suspected what my life had once been.
If I had any say about it, my life would go on.