Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. Or the characters. Or Robert.
...Damn it...
Preface
The little brown eyes of the girl, if possible, open wider in shock as the two adults bicker back and forth relentlessly about things that she would never begin to understand. Various objects are thrown around the decent sized room, making indents in the walls and running into picture frames or other glass items decorated around the room. Profanities and vulgar remarks are thrown in each other's faces, making the little girl wince with each cuss word that is spoken. She cradles herself in the corner of the room, covering her hands on her ears to protect them from the high pitched wailing of the woman as the man throws a picture frame at her, telling her how they could be happy, carefree, perfect together. The woman barely dodges it, sending it flying into the wall behind her, the thin, delicate wood frame crushing on impact. Glass shards scatter on the floor, some being sent toward the frightened girl in the corner. The girl looks over across the room to see which picture the man had thrown.
A happy family stands still in the picture, holding the family in what seemed like a happy outing at the park, the little girl in the middle, all smiles as she held both of the adult's hands. The woman looks down at the child, who looks no older than eight, love glistening in her eyes. The man had the little child on his right shoulder, holding her hand so she wouldn't fall, looking at her with the same facial expression—though it didn't reach his eyes, if somebody looked ever so closely. That moment in time would almost fool you into thinking that something like this would never be happening in a warm little home such as the girl was in now. The family was happy. They were open, loving, caring.
Oh, the lies. The lies that were passed through the old walls of the home they lived in; they were sick, malevolent, disheartening to the furthest point. The emotional abuse was taken to levels that would drive a person completely insane. The physical was always the same, spilling blood at every brawl that took place at night. The tears that were shed were always by the two adults; the small child had grown accustomed to it, but was still terrified, for lack of a better word. She would never get any type of comfort from anybody, for she would not tell anybody about anything that happened within the house; In other words, what happened in the house, stayed in the house, as she liked to call it.
She wanted to do something. She wanted to act, wanted to stop all the fighting and yelling and hurting and pain and suffering. She wanted to fix whatever was broken, whether it is an actual object or the two hurt humans standing across the room from her, screaming out coarse language that she hardly understood anyway. She wanted to fix the broken happiness that was supposed to roam free in the people that supposedly took care of her. She wasn't the key, she knew that much—she was hardly even a small ray of light that shone through the rainclouds that loomed over their heads. The clouds poured fear, hurt, anger, and rage. The clouds were spiteful enough to seem like they were laughing at the little girl, taunting her to join in the fun of the argument—though it was hardly that. Penitence hailed on the little girl's conscience, heavy and ruthless. Though she was strong and could handle a great deal of mental pain, the thought seeped through her careful barrier that she set up for herself. Was this, perhaps, her doing? Did she say or do something to set them off into a battle of bloodlust and fury? Could she find out, maybe, if she watched them long enough—could she find the answers to her unspoken questions?
She could only watch, study their faces carefully. There was nothing in her power that could help stop the insanity.
The woman swiftly grabbed a vase from the table in front of her and smashed it across the man's face, the shards breaking off of his cheek and onto the floor. The man didn't yell or grunt, as if he didn't feel the vase crush against him at all. A few pieces cut into his cheek, drawing blood. The man paid no attention to his injuries. They were trivial—just mere cuts that would heal over time, maybe leaving a scar behind, marking one of the many rages that went on through the family, like a tick mark counting the days going by. Just physical marks.
The mental marks that were left in the little girl's mind were still bleeding…ever since the first argument…
"Why don't you listen?" The man slurrs slightly to the woman, indicating slight intoxication. This rarely happened, having a somewhat drunk argument. The two only drank at social outings; the man, however, didn't. This was practically the only thing that the woman was responsible about. She had always acted like a child, always having to be guided by others, surprisingly some decisions led by the little girl shaking in the corner.
The woman doesn't reply. She manages a brave look to linger on her face as she looks at the man and waits for him to say something else. The only thing he does is slap her vehemently across her face, a small gasp escaping her mouth as she takes the blow as calmly as she can. She composes her face quickly, as if she was expecting this. She quickly exhales what breath she had taken in before the hit, turning around to look at him again.
The small girl starts to sob quietly. She is afraid to make a sound, for she thinks that she may follow the same fate as the woman. She doesn't like her best friend being hurt by this sick, twisted man. She doesn't like the pain that he was dealing on her. She could care less about herself—the woman was her only concern.
Her own mother.
"I said," the man barks out again, more forcefully this time, "why don't you listen?" He doesn't care about a response this time—he forcefully grabs her hair and pulls violently, making the woman cry out in pain. The small girl is now shaking with sobs, still afraid to make any sound. He shakes her once, making the woman cry again into the empty space; Empty of people, of emotion, of anything.
The woman glares at the man, her eyes practically sending waves of hate into him. "Because you never give me reason to," she replies finally, grabbing the wrist of the man, trying to loosen his hold on her hair to make it more bearable—his grip was unbreakable at this point, so fighting it was useless.
The man, after a moment of unbearable glaring, tugs at her hair once more before letting go. The woman falls to the ground, letting a small sigh escape her lips in relief.
The small girl hadn't any clue to why they were fighting like they were—for she would never understand why, not even when she finally decided to end it all.
Well, for her, at least.
The girl finally allows herself some small release and lets out a choked sob, tears coating her small heart-shaped face. She rounds up the courage to go upstairs and stands up. She runs past the collapsed woman and the bleeding man, leaving them alone to argue and vent their anger out on other objects around the house. She quickly runs up the stairs as fast as her little legs could take her, turning around in the hallway to her room.
She slams the door shut, the sound slightly startling her because of the welcomed silence that seemed to drift around her room in complete peace. She leans back against her plain white door, slowly sliding down against it until she finally reaches the floor. She curls up her knees and wraps her arms around them, hugging them to her chest protectively. She lets out another choked sob and leans her head against them, welcoming the darkness they brought to her eyes. She cries her heart out in the small but warm space, letting all of her worries and fear pour out of her. On impulse, she swings her arm around and swiftly punches the wall to the left of her, cracking the drywall. She immediately stops crying and holds her fist in the wall for a few more seconds before relaxing her arm to her lap. She takes a quick, shaky intake of breath, attempting to calm herself down.
She needs an outlet. She needs something that she can channel her emotions out of her and through something else. She couldn't live like this all the time and not be able to let it all go. The hurt and the suffering were eating her alive, and she felt the need to help—but how could she, when she could suffer the same things as her mother as suffered? She couldn't help them, so that was a lost cause. She couldn't go anywhere, because she didn't have anywhere else to go. She didn't have any friends or family that she could call and take her away from the awful place that she had the nonexistent pleasure to call home.
She slowly finds herself on the floor, her cheek resting against the cold hardwood below her. She welcomed the sudden coolness, letting it envelop her completely. She closes her eyes but doesn't fall asleep as she desperately wants to—she instead relives every past battle between her mother and the man. She remembers every cut, every cuss word, every bruise, and every scar; remembers every facial expression, every cry, every look, every object thrown and broken, every tear shed, and every comeback thrown away.
She remembers the man always giving her a look that said that she was the most disheartening, burdening thing that ever walked this earth.
Her father.
So! This is my new story, Nobody's Home. I promise the chapters will be a lot longer than the preface and the rest of the story is a lot better than the preface. There is a lot of music in this one, so if you guys know any songs that can be made into acoustic verisons please tell me. I'm making a small playlist for this and so far I have like 8 songs or something like that.
Also! If you don't like violence (like guns and knives and all that fun stuff that you can run around the house with!) then this story probably isn't for you. But if you like guns, knives and badassness, then you'll love it! Lol.
If you guys have any ideas for anything else (like why they were fighting) or theories, tell me in a review!
By the way, if anybody wishes me a happy birthday today, YOU ALL DIE!
That is all! :)
-Irrevocably Obsessed