WARNING: These oneshots are not for the faint of heart. They are real, raw emotion and reality from children who are abused sexually by people they thought they could trust. I am not going to dance around the subject matter. I am going to be real with you. If you feel you cannot handle it, then I appreciate it, I know that, and I accept it. But these things need to be written. You need to know what it's like every day for these kids, voiceless from the monsters that control their lives and make them powerless. If you've been abused, then you can sympathize easily with Lissa. If you haven't, then you cannot possibly imagine the pain. Thank you.

S.O.S

Chapter One

April 19, 1892

To me, eyes are the most important part of your body. They see colors, shapes, curves, people. If I were blind, I am sure I would hate it. To see is to live. If you are not living, then what are you doing? Existing. Floating through the world, looking around, wondering what you're doing here. Sometimes that's how I felt. Sometimes I still feel that way.

Sometimes, eyes are bad. The stupid pupil has to take in everything. Sometimes there is good in the world, and you want your eyes to feast upon its greatness. Other times you just want to cover them because of the filth that they have to endure. The eye is a traitor. It looks even when every single fiber of your being cries for it to look away; the eye looks without shame, without fear, upon the thing that frightens you the most.

Perhaps that is why I like the eyelid. Do you know what it does? It covers your eyes from things you do not want to see. The eyelid protects your eye from dust, dirt, potentially harmful objects. It is the body natural defense to something it doesn't want to get into your eye.

So then why is it that when you are truly paralyzed by fear, do your eyes not close? Why, whenever something truly awful passed through your pupil, do your eyelids not respond and close? Have you ever been so terrified that you don't dare look away, for fear of the repercussions of that simple action?

I have.

:-:-:-:-:-:

Running without shoes was possibly the least smart thing I could have done. Especially on a dirt road, in the middle of Ireland, in spring. The weather in Ireland was unpredictable as it was predictable. You could count on overcast skies, rain almost every day. But it was always pretty cool, even during the summer, with a constant breeze from the ocean nearby.

I was determined to reach the creek, though. I could feel myself limping as I ran, from the absolute soreness between my legs, and I pushed myself harder. I loved running, because it was freeing, but right now I felt as if I was running for my life.

Deep in the forest of Tralee there was a creek. A creek whose mouth was the ocean, but a creek nonetheless. When I found it, though, I yanked my dirty dress off and sunk down into the cold water, finally allowing the tears to well in my eyes. I sobbed for a good ten minutes in the creek while scrubbing myself with my hands. The water turned a slight pink from the blood that ran in rivulets down my thighs.

I felt so dirty, so disgusting. I pulled my dress in after I felt sufficiently scrubbed and began scrubbing it as well, wanting to soak out all the blood, all traces of my father's handiwork. I forced myself to calm down, because little girls did not cry.

I climbed out onto the bank and pulled my dress back on, falling backwards against the grass, breathing heavily. The soreness between my legs did not go away in the cold water, merely ached and burned each time I breathed, a distinct ache that felt like those terrible bruises where you could feel your blood pumping behind the bruise.

Then I heard voices. I couldn't get my body to respond or to move so I just lay there, horrified, and still in shock from what had just happened to me.

Daddy's never touched me that way before, my brain mused. Never hurt me like before.

I'd only seen him act this way with my mother.

It was the middle of the night and I'd woken up to a strange noise. It sounded like an animal and it worried me. Daddy hated it when animals got into our food cellar. I got up to investigate, knowing Daddy would be mad if it was a raccoon or some such animal. But the noises came from my parents' room. Frowning, I crept down the hallway and peeked into their room. My mother is on her knees, trembling, and my father is sweating, his eyes rolling back into his head.

I am truly frightened. I want to go in, to make my mother safe. She always says if anything bad should happen, I am to run to the police straightaway. But I find my feet are nailed to the floor. I can't move. I can't breathe.

My father spots me as I'm about to step into the room to put a stop to my mothers' suffering. He makes a "wait" sign with his hand and then puts is finger to his lips. He makes another animal sound and my mother falls back against her pillow, breathing heavily.

When my feet are no longer nailed to the floor, I run back to my room and burrow under my blankets. Daddy follows, whispers in my ear. That I am a good girl, and a brave girl. And should I hear those noises again, come to their room straightaway to make sure my mother is safe, but make sure to stay very quiet. It is our secret.

The next few nights, I am awakened by the same noises. Each night, I creep to my parents' room to make sure my mother is kept safe for another night.

I only know now that my father had lied to me. He wasn't keeping her safe. He was doing what he did just now to me. He was doing only what should be kept sacred for a man and a wife. But now I am broken. Now I know what it is like to be a real woman.

The voices got louder, closer, and I sat up, suddenly aware of the fact that I was just laying there, not moving. I didn't stand up, didn't dare move. I was just quiet as a mouse, looking up only when they came into view.

It was a man, and presumably his son. They both had blond hair, and they both carrying squirming rabbits by their back legs. They were laughing, and I didn't know what to make of that. Weren't all families like mine? My parents didn't laugh. They fought. I didn't understand.

The taller man spotted me first. "What have we here? A wood elf perhaps?" he said, his voice reverberating from the trees. I flinched instinctively, terrified. Would I be hurt again, in the same manner that my father had hurt me just now?

I stood up, and turned to go.

"Whoa there, little girl," the man said, catching my shoulder. I couldn't move, my feet nailed into the soft earth. My father called me 'little girl' to demean me, to show that I would always be a child, something to abuse, use, penetrate, break.

"I was just going. I'm sorry to bother you," I stammered, sounding weak. My brain gave me a shove internally for sounding like such a baby.

What would your daddy say if he heard you sounding like such a baby? my brain mocked me.

"Where's the fire, little elf?" the taller man asked.

I didn't understand the tone in his voice. I'd never heard such a tone used in my entire life. It was alien to my ears, and I found I didn't like that. Not knowing was awful.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" my mouth blurted and my brain kicked me repeatedly.

"Well, for one, pretty little girls shouldn't be out in the forest alone. Who knows what sort of wild animals live out here?" the man smiled, still using that same foreign tone that confused me. "Second of all, you're soaking wet and it's the middle of April. You'll catch your death."

I shrugged and looked at my feet, which were soggy and dirty from standing on the muddy creek floor.

"You should come home for lunch with us," the younger boy spoke next, surprising me. "My mother always makes more than enough for us."

"That's a great idea, Sean," the older man said, patting the boy on the shoulders with a large hand. "Carolina has a dress she could borrow."

I opened my mouth to protest, but I found myself following along with them before I even realized it. I learned that the older man's name was William Conlon and he was a well-known carpenter in Tralee. His son was called Sean, and he had a glittering smile that made me feel the urge to blush.

We reached their cottage and William greeted his wife with a kiss. She was a lovely woman with soft auburn colored hair pulled into a sensible bun and large brown doe eyes that made her look sweet. Her face was young, though, not weathered and tired like my mother's was.

"And who have we here?" the woman asked, bending down to smile at me.

I pressed my lips together, realizing I hadn't told them my own name. I didn't want to trust these people, but they hadn't given me a reason not to. I figured it would be wise to just reciprocate politely, like I was taught to.

"My name is Alyssa Mae O'Rourke," I said clearly.

The woman beamed. "Well, Alyssa Mae O'Rourke, I am Maggie."

I blushed again. "My mother calls me Lissa. I think I like that name best."

She smiled and led me up the stairs. We sat in the bathroom and she ran water from the mouth of a water pump over my feet to clean them off. I undressed as she went to get me a new dress to wear. I smiled, enjoying the feel of the water, until she returned and gasped.

I looked up at her and frowned. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"There's…" she stopped. "There's blood between your legs, darling."

I stood up instantly, looking down in horror. The blood had severely slowed, but it was still trickling down my spindly legs. She grabbed a nearby washcloth and, after getting my nod, began cleaning me off.

"Mother of God, save our souls," she murmured and shook her head. "Who has hurt you this way, Lissa? Please tell me."

I shook my head. "You wouldn't understand. Nobody understands. He loves me. He said it himself. He wouldn't do things to me if he didn't love me and want me to know."

"Alyssa, what he does is not all right," Maggie said and stared straight into my eyes.

I tugged myself away from her, glaring suddenly. "How would you know?"

"Because my father did the same to me when I was small," she whispered.

I stared up into her eyes again, searching for something, but I wasn't sure what I was searching for. She understood me. She knew what it was like to live in fear, to be in pain. A respect welled inside my chest for her. She cleaned me up, patted me dry with a towel and wrapped me in a new dress that fit nicely.

And then she hugged me, long and hard, and told me things would be all right. And to come to their house if I should need anything.

As I walked behind her to join her family, I realized I could finally identify the tone of voice that William Conlon used with me that had been so foreign:

Love.

As much as Elaine Vivian wanted a sneak peak to CHESS, I am going to go ahead with my oneshots. Because I am a scab like that. :)

However, just because her suggestion got me thinking, I will post a snippet of one of the chapters at the end of this series of oneshots. Just to tide you over until I get the real story up.

Now then, I hate whoring for reviews but... the more you review, the faster I get these up and the closer you get to CHESS... Just sayin'. C:

CTB!

xx Wicked

PS- I've posted the link to the summer fanfiction contest on my profile. Vote for me perhaps? (I'm pushing for best couple but I'm not being picky or nothin'... C: )