My name is Dave Strider, I'm 13 years old, and I am permanently mute.
He did this. The one sitting downstairs on the couch, probably drowning in booze. Him, with the scalene triangle shaped triangle glasses, the flawless facade.
I hate him.
He took away my ability to speak. He poured bleach down my throat, and then told the doctor I had tried commiting suicide.
No wonder he hadn't beaten me in a while before that. He was saving his own ass on why my body, which it normally was; all bruised and bloodied up.
It sickens me, knowing that I have to actually call him my brother. I sighed, and put my earbuds back in, pressing the play button on my iPod Touch. Oh, yeah. He was rich. Rich enough to make it look like he treated me like an older brother should. When I were little, it even fooled me. I believed that everything was perfect, and what he was doing was natural.
That was, until I learned what domestic abuse was in first grade.
Everything clicked then.
I even tried to fight back once...
I was were left with a broken wrist, and a death threat if I even dared to try to fight him again.
I brush back burning tears that threatened to fall, and sigh, looking at the clock. Quarter to six. I have a strict schedule that I have to follow.
At six o'clock, I am to take a shower.
By seven, my lights are out, and I'm in bed.
If not, less food than what he gives me.
He lets me eat three days out of seven, and all it was, was toast and a glass of water.
If I don't follow my schedule, I'm to be punished, and I lose a day of food.
Punishment was heavy bruises littering my whole body body while he screams at me about how worthless, and pathetic, not to mention useless I am.
I flinch only slightly as my nails dig into my palms, and sigh, letting them go. I crawl over to my dresser, and opened my pajama drawer filled mostly with small boxes, extracting a razorbade from it's small cardboard box.
Ah, the razorblade. My only friend. The only thing that won't leave me. it does hurt me, but I control how much, and when it does.
I stand up, and grab my pajama bottoms; then head to the bathroom.
The tap gets turned on, and I painfully shed my long sleeve shirt and skinny jeans. Ouch, that fucking beating last night was extreme, and my muscles ache, screaming in protest as I ignore the pain and step into the poeclain heat, placing the blade on the bathtub edge.
I turn your face up against the spray, and allow myself a moment of indulgence. And, then I pick up the blade.
This was an addiction, an outlet, it might even be an oasis.
I groan softly in almost relief as I shallowly dig the blade into my left wrist, and without batting an eye, slit, watching the blood bead up, and drip down my already scarred wrist and then down the drain.
I let it bleed for a few minutes, before stepping out, wrapping waterproof gauze around the wound tightly, and proceed to get back in, and make quick work of washing my bleach blonde hair.
I wrapped a white, fluffy towel around my waist, and make do with my regular nightly routine. Hair and teeth brushed, bruises hidden. I adjust the gauze,making sure it's wrapped around my wrist properly. I throw my best friend for the night out, and head back into my cave..
My bed is a small twin, and it's getting too small now that I had a random growth spurt. I'm 13 and three quarters, and I'm 5'9. This bed is annoyingly fucking tiny.
I hit the switch, bathing my room in complete darkness, and scurry under the covers.
At least he didn't hit me today...