Betrayal

Chapter 1: Betray the Daughter

Amy Rose nervously eyed her digital alarm clock. Its blinking red lights assured her that it was 3 A.M., long enough for her mother's sleeping pills to set in. Fwump! As Amy reached over to grab her backpack, holding her books, her gloved hand smacked the rough, wooden nightstand. "Crapola!" she whispered sharply. If Mother were to open the door a crack I'll be doomed!, thought Amy.

Amy's Mom had always been gifted with the talent of figuring out lies from truth, and she barely ever failed. The once and only time she misjudged Amy was when she thought her own daughter had stolen her gold necklace. Amy hadn't. Her Mom, however, went to such great lengths to find out! Amy arrived at a doctor's office – a doctor with a lie detector – with bruises decorating her face, arms, and fingerprints, red—hot, on her neck's tender skin. Turns out the divorced Mr. Rose had snatched up the grubby necklace.

Paying thirty dollars. That was Amy's fate that horrific day.

Now she sat with a puzzled look on her face, pondering whether to pretend-sleep, or dash to the attic. Either way, the consequences would be dire.

Amy's reverie was shattered by a bellow, "AMY LILLITH ROSE, WAS THAT Y'ALL MAKIN' THAT RAUCOUS?" Amy winced and sprang up off her bed and made a beeline for the foggy window. Snap! Snap! Snap! The window creaked as it popped open a half-inch, then stubbornly refused to budge. "Damn!" Amy shrieked just before the door broke open, wooden shards airborne.

"ROSE! Get your damn self OVER HERE!" Amy hung her head and reluctantly stepped forward a foot or two. "MORE!" The longer poor Amy stalled, the worse the beating. She finally collapsed on the spiny carpet, thick with pieces of the door.

There was a loud sigh, then heavy footsteps to Amy's location on the carpet.

Mrs. Rose was a strong woman, indeed. Three-hundred pounds of pure beast, twenty pounds of actual female. Her strength was not to be doubted . . . ever. If someone were to challenge Mrs. Rose, they'd be dead and gone and rotting with angel wings before the punch hit 'em! She'd be going easy on Amy if the punch 'only' flung across the room and into the opposite wall. . . . But Mrs. Rose used full strength on Amy.

"GRAAAH!" Mrs. Rose's steel fist hit Amy like an ironclad boat against a wilted dandelion. Amy flew through the air and her head smacked against the wooden board surrounding the lower edge of her off-white, splintery bed, cracking the board in half.

But good 'ol Miss Rose-y wasn't finished up just yet. She walked over to where Amy was laying; Amy Wasn't crying, though. It had been worse before. "Mom, stop." Amy whined helplessly. "Hmph." Was all Amy heard before she was lifted up, as if by magic, and wind blew across her beet-red face, sending a window speeding towards her until one pane was close to lick, then . . . darkness.

Amy awoke the next day halfway outside, half-way in her room. Apparently, the glass had cut various parts of her cheek, because the numb feeling was almost unbearable, considering the fact that Amy REALLY knew what numb meant.

"Bet I have red highlights with all this fighting blood." Amy whispered to no one in particular, sliding into her room as remaining glass pricked her pajamas – a.k.a., her third red dress. She only owned two, Dress #1 was a doozy, torn apart from rolling around in a burr patch to get off the bees purposely dumped on her by her Mother.

Dress #2 was the Sunday Best, only a few wrinkles and tattered areas claimed it, and, so far, she only wore it to school. Dress #3, the current dress, looked like it was well on its way to tearing in two. However, if Amy even dared mentioning the shortage of dresses, she would probably need a new face, as well.

But this was life. Getting beaten every night for late-night reading, contemplating during the day, figuring out how to keep it under control. But in the morning, there was also a certain perk: Letting out the anger mentally.

Wish I could just grab someone's head and twist it till it pops . . . stab its eyes out – granted I get to keep them afterward. What Mother does to me . . . I like how she plans it. It gives me lots of ideas for my first hater. Well, my first known hater, at least. And I like the way the cycle works. . . . Amy thought with a most devious grin.

At school, no one spoke to Amy, at least until seventh period. Even tough, Oakwood High wasn't the brightest of Angel Island schools, it was the most hands-on. Seventh period, Science, was a lovely class. Dissections every month, labs every week, projects every semester – it was a procrastinator's dream!

"Today, class, I will assign you groups," the teacher, Mrs. Atga, announced, "which will consist of 2 to 3 people, work together and get to know each other, will you? Today, the dissection specimens will be a drug-treated rat and a healthy rat that was held in captive. Decide what differences exist, and have fun learning!"

Trays, pins, scalpels, scissors, tweezers, a magnifying glass, goggles, optional gloves, and the rats were passed out with care, and a Powerpoint presentation flashed up on the screen, showing directions for safe dissection.

When the groups were assigned, Amy crossed her fingers. "No idiot or nerd, no idiot or nerd, no idiot or nerd, "she whispered in a chant repeatedly.

"And Group Seven will be Cream, Amy, and Scourge. Table four, please." Mrs. Atga yelled over the buzz of the class.

"HI!" Cream shouted when the group gathered up. Scourge and Amy muttered 'hi' and gave the sick rat a good jab with their scalpels. Scourge was more of Amy's type, so they sat on one side of the table, and Cream on the other. "So we are going to an AWESOME time!" Cream whispered, giddy with glee and excitement.

"Sure." Amy and Scourge agreed halfheartedly.

At the end of class, when the hypotheses' were written and rats were thrown in the Dissections Trash Bin, Amy stayed after class to help Scourge crape rat guts off the table, thanks to some bad ideas and the mention of fun.

"Had fun." Scourge mumbled with a smirk. "Wanna get together for coffee or food or somthin' fit fer a lady of your style?" Amy smiled in response, "Sure, Scourge!" He left without another word. Of course, Scourge never counted as a friend. He just wanted multiple boobs. Big ones, too. And Amy could supply him that – well, whatever her water bras allowed – for free. That was all there was to it.

Cream, who had also stayed to help, dashed over to Amy with a big, kiddie smile on her face and asked, "Hey, Amy! Wanna be my friend?" A devious smile played across Amy's face, followed by evil, sinner's thoughts. "Of course!" Amy replied with sickly sweetness. "Best friends."