The pounding never stops, but this kind of beat makes me feel better. Here my voice could be heard and that's all I ever wanted.

Amelia P.O.V

It started around the time when Alfred stood up for himself after yet another beating from our mother. It was going on for a few years now, kept hidden from our father. He was never home anyways. Always away in another country, fighting for the freedom that we have in America. Ironic really, since I never had the freedom to speak. I was just a little girl though, so I didn't understand rights anymore than I understood the concept of leaving the house or eating ALL the food on my plate. It was quite the night too. I remember I just got home from school with my older sister Madeline. I was probably around six or seven. Alfred and Matthew were in Middle school and Madeline was in high school. She was telling me a story, one that I giggled and laughed about. What it was I don't remember. We took the long way around the city to get to the house. I didn't know why she did this and as a naive child, I didn't bother to ask.

When we walked through the door to the house we stayed at for the time being, I heard Alfred crying and Matthew whimpering. Alfred had this dark, blackish, bluish hand print on his right cheek and dried up blood on his lips. Matthew looked fine but of course I wouldn't know that he was actually falling in the seams. When I saw that I remember, I looked at my mother in horror (Or as close to it as I could as a tiny toddler) and gripped onto my sister's skirt tightly. Maddy did nothing to help comfort me, since she knew that was the wrong thing to do. I didn't understand what was happening but I yelled out the chaos in my mind.

"Mommy what doing? Alffy crying. HELP HIM!" The last sentence must have made her snap. She walked right over to where I was, demanding in every step she took. Her face was one that haunts my nightmares and dreams. With one look at me she said the exact phrase.

"You can't tell me what to do. You are WORTHLESS and PITIFUL. You can hardly speak at your age and you have to nerve use your PRIMATIVE language to scold me on what I'm doing?!" With each yell and scream, I shrunk deeper and deeper into my sister's skirt. The fear is one that I wish I never experienced, but had dealt with the rest of my years in the same household as her.

From then on, it only got worse. She would not talk to me and only did so to remind me how pathetic I was and to 'reprime me'. I did worse in my reading and English classes and by second grade, I had to go into remedial programs to catch up. They never once questioned the reason for my lack of language. They only assumed I was stupid and had to be taught like a special needs kid. Multiple times they called my house, telling my mother that she should take me to the doctors to see if I have a mental disorder. She never did, although she would tell them I did. Every place was a different illness, from ADD to problems with my brain development.

Not only did she screech out how unintelligible I am during those years, she also never let me show her that I am. It was probably because of what Matty did although I never blamed him. She wanted control, and she made sure to control the youngest one. I was never allowed to speak in my house, only made to take, take, take what she would serve. I hardly spoke and I started to lose the ability to talk when Madeline left. I forgot how certain words were said, or how to pronounce certain letters. We hardly talked for fear of her taking her anger out in more unorthodox ways. Even when she wasn't there we never spoke. We knew each other. It was a downward spiral that never ended,

The turning point in my life I would have to say was when I first heard a song. I remember the song too, 'I will survive'. We were in Maddy's car after visiting her for an hour or so. The best times of my life then. She had the radio on and when we were all out of words to say, the song filled the abstance. It was beautiful, listening to the song. When it was done, I asked her what the words were. She asked me what I thought of them. When I told her how wonderful it made me feel and the way the beat ran through my veins, how the words drilled into my head, sounding much better, and kinder than the words mother would say, she replied that it was called music. She told me the particular song was about how a woman can survive without a man in her life, how she didn't need him because she was strong enough to live on her own. I was inspired to say the least. I never got to finish the conversation, since we arrived at the gateway of hell.

I was going into seventh grade that year which was the time when I starting to contemplate running away. But that song would keep replaying in my mind. I was able to memorize the whole song, the lyrics, and the guitar. The title, the way the singer put forth her energy, it was intoxicating. I knew I needed to find more if I was going to survive the remaining years. So I would ask people for song titles and artist. I looked them up on the library computer and, when it was really silent, I would plug in secondhand headphones and listen to their tracks and live performances. By the end of the school year, I had favorite genres and artist along with songs that would represent my moods.

When high school started, the yelling and taunting from my mother only got worse. Every minute I spent in the residence was filled with her nosily telling me how she is utterly appalled at me and my siblings and how we were raised well. I never had a voice in that place because I never was granted that. Some days I just wanted to scream out, I'm a person as well! I need to share my voice. Of course, that would only cause more pain in our household.

I didn't necessarily have friends, but I had people who were willing to come over or let me stay at their place for a night or two. Instead of the noise that made me hate myself more, I heard beats that would tell me to hold on or to look on the Brightside. And when I was really down, the songs expressed their own anger and sadness, showing me that there were others out there that knew EXACTLY what I felt like.

When I was making my class schedule for my tenth grade year, I found out the new school I was going into had a music program. Thinking about the way the rhythm pulled through my body, like a magnet towards the opposite pole, I immediately signed it into my schedule. When the first class started, I felt like I found heaven. I would stay after school every day to learn how to play this instrument, or learn more about that player. The teacher would always welcome me, and never asked questions. My favorite instrument was the cello. The deep sounds it made, the way the strings would vibrate against my fingers and vibrate against my ears, it was mind-numbing. I would play classical pieces all the time. The teacher would always tell me that I should join the orchestra, but I would always decline. Mother wouldn't like to know what I do in my spare time.

I started to sing and play the bass guitar when I entered the second school in my eleventh grade year. It was a whisper at first; nervous that someone would find me. I would gradually start pitching just like the artist themselves. It was hard to keep it a secret at first since I was the last one there in the house, but it was worth it. Hearing my voice sound off the sound-proof walls, the bass giving its deep alto. It was there that I met my first ever friends. I actually felt good about myself. I opened up. I wasn't that dumb silent kid anymore. I was a strong-willed, talkative, friendly woman. I will survive. And I did.

In my last year of high school, I was taken under the care of a band that was created from the students there. 'Our Human Identity' was the name. It couldn't explain my life any better. I was just a background character in the band, helping by bringing water and food to the other band mates. Then one night when they were all gone, I was cleaning up. The 'leader' however forgot his phone. When he heard me singing, he made me the lead singer of the band. I then got promoted to bass player when they heard me fooling around with it while we were taking a break. When I told them I don't have any bass guitars, Natalya gave me one of hers. I then realized that I finally got the family that I wanted. Don't get me wrong, I love my brothers and sister. But they are just that. Brothers and a sister. I needed parental guidance, a model to follow. Someone who's life isn't as messed up as mine or my siblings. That's what I got when I was pulled from the halls and forced to join OHI.

My brothers don't get why I would want to risk my life on a plan that isn't likely to succeed. But they never had the influence music has on me. It beacons and calls me. It tells me how it feels as I do to it. I wish to become an inspiration to a small girl, just like me, who feels there is no way out, that no matter how long you wait, it will never be long enough. A voice in the silence in her head. Never again will I be silent. Because for the first time in my life, I have a voice.

A.N.

Hello, second story on here. But again, I don't think I could make a habit of this. It's hard to write one-shots, not to mention multi-chapters.

So here is a story I wrote last year around this time. I was RP-ing with someone I know. I was the Amelia of the group and we got to make up their back story. The goal was to make it sad but still realistic. So I did that here.

Sorry for any grammar or punctuation errors or anything else that might be awful. Comment and I'll fix it. I don't have a beta so I'm counting on anyone who reads this.

Leave a comment and maybe I'll finish the other three drafts I have for the other siblings.

Thank you!