Hi, this is my first The Hobbit fanfic. Just a couple of warnings: yes, my OC is very much abused in several ways, so there is mention of sexual abuse, but nothing explicit, so this story will be safe for young and old to read.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, just my OC.
Please enjoy and review!
Chapter 1:
"Please, stop! Dad! Please stop it!" She pleaded as she slid down the wall, her arms raised to shield her face and torso. Through her tears, she could see her father's blotchy red, drunken face contorted in a wild anger as he beat her mercilessly.
"You will do what I say! And I say that you'd better get yourself in that room NOW!" Slowly, she rose to her feet, her father grabbing her wrist and flinging her towards the bedroom where another of his "friends" were waiting.
Later, Connemara woke in the wee hours before dawn, every inch of her body aching from what she had been subjected to. It took every ounce of will to not moan as she slipped away from the bed where her father's drunken friend was still out cold. Gathering her clothes from the floor, she sneaked out to the bathroom to shower and get away from the apartment she and her father shared in New York. She bathed quickly, donned a loose red-plaid, knee-length flannel tunic, her softest fleece-lined leggings (which were tan), and her favorite, brown leather riding boots. She pulled on her double-layered fleece cape that came down to back of her knees (she had sewn in herself, navy blue and lined with a medium slate blue, because she liked capes over coats)and grabbed her little leather drawstring bag that held her phone, wallet, and chapstick. This she hung off the belt that was loosely buckled around her waist. As she left the apartment building, tucking her key in her pouch and raising her very deep hood against the freezing January wind, Connemara knew she would look a little odd in her favored get-up, but she was well past the point of caring anymore.
Wandering down familiar streets, she soon found herself outside on the Brooklyn Bridge. It was still dark; only a slight tinge of deep blue on the eastern horizon against the black sky fortold the dawn's approach. Connemara gazed out over the water flowing under the bridge with deadened eyes as the emptiness of her life welled up in her seventeen-year-old heart.
Her father hated her, abusing her verbally and physically. Her body was littered with the cuts and bruise he had inflicted, and there was hardly a curse word or profanity Connemara did not know because her own father had flung all of them at her over the last twelve years since her mother's death. However the part that actually hurt most was that he used her, used his own daughter to keep up his heavy drinking habits. Cold, silent tears slid down her face as she realized that she had lost track of the number of times in the last year or so that her own father had sold her to one of his "friends" for a night of perverted pleasure. Nights that left her in pain; nights that made her feel sick, used, and tainted, not worthy of real peoples' company.
The harsh winter air swirled around her, tossing strands of her chin-length, curly, chestnut brown hair into her face as tears continued to fall from her crystal blue eyes, sobs racking her slender, willowy frame.
As she blankly looked out over the water, a thought struck her: it was dark and no one would see her go over the edge. She could not bear the thought of going back to her "home" again, but if the police found her, they would take her back since she was under-aged. If she told them about her father, they would believe his story instead; they always did. On the other hand, she just wandered the streets and avoided the police, she would probably get caught by gangs who would do worse things to her than her father or his friends. This was always what sent her back to the apartment. But not today.
"I can't go back, I just can't go back," she told herself over and over. Finally, as if her body was acting of its own accord, she climbed over the bridge railing and found herself looking down into the cold swirling water. Closing her eyes and biting her cold pale lip, she took a deep breath and let go of the bridge.
Connemara could feel herself falling, falling, and then she impacted the river, quickly being swallowed up by the water. The shock of its coldness instantly took all breath from her lungs. She could feel her muscles seizing from the intense temperature drop as she drifted deeper into the darkness, then into oblivion.
I know it's a dark start, but it will get better later in the story.