(I don't know why I wrote this. No, nothing is wrong/going on at home or anywhere. You would know if something was, believe me. Just please read and review.)
My vision is clouded and blurred, but I can still see my tears make dark spots on the dusty floor of the old abandoned factory. A small glint of silver lies next to my knee bent beside me, but I ignore it after glancing quickly at it. I slam my head into my hands, my fingers clutching my scalp, my fingernails digging towards my skull. I couldn't stop my mind from reeling. This happens often; however, the reel running this time wasn't one I enjoy.
"Andra?" an impatient male voice asked. A small girl's blue-grey eyes widened in genuine fear hearing the anger brewing within her father's words. No, no, no. She couldn't bear even once more what was waiting for her, the event that begged to happen. "Andra Raine!" her father screamed. The child's stomach twisted into a knot as her father laid eyes on her. A hard slap came across her face from his larger hands that smelled strongly of cigars and martinis. Andra recoiled from him, her smaller hands going to her stinging, burning face. Tears sprung from her eyes as she looked, frightened, to his face. His face was bright red, twisted in rage, and obviously, intoxicated.
"Dad, I— " she began to try to explain herself. She hadn't done a single thing that could have upset him, but she was always at the ready to defend with any story she could. Her father interrupted her immediately.
"Shut up!" he screamed, smacking her harder on the same cheek, which caused it to burn and bleed. Andra's knees gave out from under her, and she fell to the floor. "Get up! God damn it, get up, Andra!" His voice bellowed throughout the petite, hollow house. Andra's mother was in no position to protect her because she was away visiting nearby relatives. I'm completely on my own, she thought sourly as she stood slowly, hatred being shot from her piercing eyes toward the drunk standing before her. She hated her father with all her being. She never did a single thing that could irritate him, yet he still continued to get upset with her for no apparent reason. She hated him for that. Grabbing her by the collar of her shirt, Andra's father lifted her off the ground, right up to his face. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, too.
"This was all your mother's fault." Of course it was. Everything was someone else's fault. "You're the reason we have problems with money. You're the reason we can't keep a house. You were your mother's idea, not mine. I never wanted you. You were a mistake." Hearing that word, Andra winced internally, but knowing better than to show her father the pain his words caused her. "I knew we couldn't afford to have children, but your mother dreamed. Oh, did she dream," he said bitterly. "Just like you. If you did more than just dream your stupid dreams, then maybe you would finally be of some worth to this family!" His vicious lecture had ended, finishing with a traditional close: Andra being caused more pain. Her father's strong arms hurled her across the room, and she landed with a sickening thud on the floor, her head being clocked against the wall. Stars fluttered across her vision, soon fading to black.
I hear a whimper escape my throat as I recall every small detail of the memory. Hanging my head, my body shakes with sobs. I place a dirty hand on the cheek that my father hit. Though it was so many years ago, I can still feel it as if he did it just this moment. I feel the old, familiar fear creep into my veins. My puffy, drenched eyes crack open to see the silver glint catching my eye again. I blink the drops away to roll down my tear-stained cheeks for a clearer look. My mind processes what I'm looking at, and I gulp down the sick feeling in my throat. I recognize the strange, rectangular shape that I've only seen a time or two in my life.
A small, shining razor blade.
I pick up the small object, holding it close to my eyes to examine it. It doesn't seem to be rusty at all, or old. In fact, it looks brand new.
A strange impulse I've never felt before drums through my frail body. I grip the blade tightly on the unsharpened end, feeling the cold metal dig into my skin. I hover the sharp edge above the pale, waiting skin on my forearm; waiting to be torn open and bleeding. I hesitate for a moment. After a short time, I notice that I'm hesitating for a while, as my fingers begin to ache with the effort from clenching the blade. I press the frigid blade lightly onto my skin, then harder, forcing it in, but not breaking the skin quite yet. I'm just about to drag it down the length of my arm when a familiar voice echoes throughout the vast factory room.
"Andra!" Odd yells. He runs swiftly to my side, sliding on his knees to be level with me. I stare at him as he nears, my mouth parted slightly in surprise. He begins to gaze into my soul with his dark violet eyes, sensing all the hurt and suffering I've experienced. His eyes then drop to the metallic blade pressed against my skin. His face contorts with sorrow as he places a warm hand on my arm. The fingers belonging to his other hand gently wrap around my wrist, lifting it slowly away from my arm. As the blade makes its way to a safe distance from my arm, Odd's hand slowly slides down my fingers and begins to pry the dangerous weapon from my sore hand. He has little trouble transferring it from my hand to his, and once he finishes doing this, he throws the blade as far away from us as he can.
I peer deeply into his eyes, and he into mine. Though they burn, I can feel them welling up with tears again. Odd's sorrow seems to increase and makes it plain on his face. "Oh, Andra." With those two words, I fling myself into his arms, mashing my face against his chest. Curled in a ball on his lap, Odd wraps his arms around me as I bawl my heart out. I never would have imagined that my father's strikes and—especially—words would continue to affect me, even to present day. I don't think Odd ever imagined I would cry, either, let alone in front of him. There is nothing at all that I can do to stop my tears, sorrow, and pain from being laid out in front of me; but Odd doesn't care. He holds me and lets me cry, tightening his grip around me and occasionally planting a soft kiss on the top of my head. Replaying the memories over and over in my head, I smooth my fingers over the small indentation that the razor blade imposed on my skin. My burning eyes relax and shut easily for the first time in a while, and all I focus on as I drift to sleep is Odd's voice, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.