Terror. That is all the awaits me as I enter my home. Terror that clenches your heart in an iron grip and makes it impossible to breathe. I can't fight it. Most of you have no idea what I'm talking about. You most likely feel comfort when you come home. Happiness. The stresses of the day melt away. For me? Only terror.
It didn't used to be this way. When my dad was alive, we were a happy family. I loved my parents and they loved me. Then Dad died in a motorcycle accident (I say motorcycle rather than car, since the former is much, much worse). Five years later, I still wake up screaming. My mom was crushed, her heart broken. She remarried a guy she met at an art exhibit. He was nice at first, but I never truly liked him. This stranger could never replace the father I'd lost. Never in a million years.
Then, when I was fifteen, disaster struck again. My mom got diagnosed with Stage Four breast cancer. She fought it for six months, but it was terminal. With her dying breath, she whispered that she loved me and for me to always follow my heart. it would never lead me wrong.
So I was left with my stepfather. My cruel, abusive stepfather. The first time he hit me, I screamed so loud that he clapped both hands over my mouth and snarled,
"If you scream again, I'l hit you harder."
I did scream louder. And he kept his promise.
That was three months ago. Since then, I've worked like a slave, cooking, cleaning and catering to his every need. Like Cinderella. My parents both loved fairy tales, and I inherited that love. So now, with my world completely turned upside down, I use the familiar stories to categorize things. My stepfather is the Beast.
My name is Alice. But this is not Wonderland. This is hell on Earth.