Wanda POV

The world before me blurs before my eyes, merging all of my surroundings into one final and distant picture. The trees are a dark envious shade, probably identical to the colour my face currently is. I have never liked the colour- Green has always been the colour of envy and sickness. In my case, neither happens to be a pretty sight.

The jolting of the car brings a sickening feeling to my stomach, making me want to reel over and retch, although I manage to resist the urge to do so. I am grateful that I am able to restrain myself as for that could have been both embarrassing and disgusting and the smell could have only made things far worse and extremely quickly.

I have always suffered from car sickness, and it has never failed to bother me. Whenever the wheels hit an uneven edge in the road or when we went over a speed bump, it always granted me with an unwanted stomach churning feeling, mashing all of my body's contents together in one unstable mixture. The feeling of sickness is completely revolting altogether.

However, taking one look at my mother in the front seat, rail thin, cheekbones sharp and dangerously visible, her skin a sickeningly pale colour, I instantly stop feeling sorry for myself.

The difference between carsickness and an actual life threatening illness makes me shameful to compare the two. Again, it only makes the sickness worse. Even if referring to the topic was unsettling, it works like a charm and brings me to see the obvious more clearly.

My Mum will always be in more pain than me, no matter what. She was the one with Cancer, after all. Nothing else really matters.

Since I was five, I have watched my Mum fight that competitive battle, struggling to keep fit and healthy. When the illness had made its appearance, bringing her to sorrow, I had gradually come to see how much pain it dragged her through, each breath proving an obstacle that was agonisingly difficult to face.

I have and always do look out for her when times are rough and she can't manage. Both of us alike, I have lost some dignity in the process. I have lost the ability to think as clearly and have given up on the hope that one day, I will be granted the right to live a normal life without all the stress and difficulties blocking my way.

I had known that it was something foolish to dream about, but for some strange reason, I had found it hard to give up. Now, it seems like I am an empty version of a human, my head completely blank. Everything has been erased. I like it like that.

One of my other main priorities, besides looking after my mother, is keeping this family happy- That involves my brother, Freedom. Keeping him entertained whilst he is at the age of five is vital. Once he has lost interest in whatever I have managed to find to keep him occupied, he can be extremely irritating. Turn your back for one minute and he will be running riots around the house.

So instead, I do my best to prevent that. After all, the least thing I want to do is to get my Mum, Lucina, all stressed out. I can't exactly say that it will be good for her condition at the moment. If anything, it will most likely make everything so much worse- If that is even possible. At the moment, it doesn't seem very logical.

Our Dad sits in the front seat beside my Mum, holding her hand while he drove the car to our new location of which I will soon be able to call home… hopefully.

After an… unfortunate incident back where I used to call home, we have been forced to move away. In the process, I have left everything behind me. That includes mental items and physical, and my suitcase isn't even close to bursting open. I haven't even packed properly- just the necessities. As for everything else… the dump has become their new home.

Sadly, despite attempting to remain in the background picture, causing as little hassle as possible, the incident involved me, and no matter what I could have tried to do to keep that event from happening, I never would have been able to avoid it. My parents, an old friend and myself knew, and nobody else. I was rather keen to keep things that way. The move, the added stress, the phone calls, the tears…

It was All. My. Fault.

I am never going to be able to escape the clutches of that one bold thought.

Ever since that event has taken place, I have been bombarded with stress, causing me to have nightmares, and needing the constant presence of sleeping pills in my system before I even attempt to slip shut my eyes. The memory itself left behind permanent bruises, and therefore, I have banned myself from ever thinking, referring to or speaking about it ever again.

I am just going to have to forget, no matter how painful that may be. However, some things can simply not be forgotten.

None of my family have been bothered by the change- It is either that or they are doing a remarkable job of hiding their annoyance and disappointment. My Dad is barely here half the time anyway, so he has been wiped off the list entirely. He works far away- For most of my life, he has been away in Canada, running a boring, but well paid business.

It keeps him busy anyhow, and pays the bills, but I can't say that it still doesn't bother me. In some way, we are never fully complete without him at our sides. He is a vital element of our family. In a way, we are all like dominos- Knock down one, the rest all fall down.

Secondly, Mum is ill half the time and is never really able to notice his absence. At times she can be like a ghost- completely silent, ice cold and reflects the feeling of talking to a brick wall when she never replies. Adding to the confusion and despair, her lips sometimes move… but no words ever come out. It is like she is paralysed with fear- fear of death.

It is in rare moments like this that she actually seems fairly happy and free of the torture that always manages to cling onto her back, weighing her down, making her limbs worn and clumsy. The sight of the two of them, fingers entwined, grins on both of their faces, never fails to make me smile.

Ruth is too young to be highly affected by the change of scenery and friends and I am fairly sure that she will fit into a new school with no difficulty whatsoever. People her age are accepting so I am sure no issue will be caused in that department.

Life is always easy for her at that age- Sometimes it makes me worry about how it will be for her in the future, when she is old enough to understand the dangers of this world. Death was certainly one of them. I always fear losing the people that I love. It is a constant worry that has left its mark, deep inside my mind, refusing to be erased, just like the painful memories from before...

I lift my wrists up into the light from the sun which is beaming through the windows of the car, my skin already starting to tan slightly. Examining the scars which linger on my flesh, I am once again provoked with a reminder of those memories and events and the method that I have chosen to wipe them away.

After pulling my long sleeved shirt back over the scars, it is all I can do to simply sit and wait, trying not to fidget. I let my thoughts drift through my mind, daydreaming momentarily. It is not as if there is anything else left to do to keep me entertained. This was my best, but final option.

My Mum is the one who had proposed for a change, silently watching me go through unmanageable amounts of pain and agony. Eventually, she had given up on reality turning itself around automatically, making the situation close to breathable again. She also wants me as far away from him as possible. She is as equally disgusted as everyone else. After my school grades had dropped, that had been it for me. Now, I am just going to fit in elsewhere.

This is not going to be easy.

Mum looks at me in the rearview mirror with pity in her eyes.

'You feeling okay Wanda, sweetie?'

I nod, but say nothing. Times are hard- she understands that, and she doesn't pester me further. Even though she is sick, she still looks out for me when she can, just as I do for her. However, once she has taken a turn for the worst, there is nothing she can do to help anything, leaving me utterly alone and helpless.

When that time occurs, I am always grateful that I have at least one friend to go to. My old friends faces flash in my mind briefly, before they vanish. Another reminder- I had managed to gain friends back at home, but only few. That automatically decreases the possibility of me finding any here, where I am the stranger- the 'New Girl'.

Happy memories only seem to hurt me when I remember what I have lost- In this case, I will no longer be able to see my best friend, Andy, face to face daily like we always used to, since we have moved five hours away. Seeing the amounts of time that I feel like I need to talk to him just to stay sane, I have found alternatives.

I whip out my phone from my jeans pocket, tracing my thumb over the shattered screen before clicking the on button, bringing the screen to life. Even though it is smashed, it still works, and It is the only way to contact Andy in times of need. I scroll through my messages, smiling at the seven missed calls that he has sent me. He obviously cares.

Andy: Hey- miss you already. You set off yet?

Andy: Any luck with the new town? Let me know x

Andy: We're all thinking about you- Still best friends, right?

Andy: I hope you're doing okay…

I shake my head, dismissing his concerns even if he can't see me, and type back my own reply. His next message shoots back at me almost immediately, and I use this as an effective way to pass the time whilst erasing all the worry about this new trip. Whatever impression I give people now will remain in their heads for the rest of the school year. I only hope that it will be a good one. If not, there is nothing much that I am able to do about it right now.

Wanda: Hi. Sorry, been driving for a while and forgot to check my phone. We've set off, but still some way left to go. 5 hours away, remember?

Andy: Ah. Right. I remember. Seems like a long way.

Wanda: It is :(

Andy: Aww x Feel better soon, Wand. We all care about you.

Wanda: Thanks Andy, and I hope I will. What could go wrong…?

Andy: I know what you're thinking, and please be positive. At least you can get a break from him, yeah? He won't be there anymore.

This time, I don't reply. The memories are now threatening to jump right back out at me, drowning me in my own fear whilst forcing me to relive the dreaded events of my past. I don't have anything left to say to him. It always makes me go numb.

Andy: Wand, I'm sorry. Just get your grades back up, okay? Make some friends, have fun, get a boyfriend!

I snort.

Wanda: You wish. What makes you think the boys in this town will be any better?

Andy: You're right. We're all losers.

Wanda: Totally.

'Turn the Satnav off, Lucina', Dad's voice booms, excitement plain in his voice. 'We're nearly there!'

Mum nods, and Freedom stirs from his sleep, blinking innocently, rubbing at her eyes. While Mum batters the satnav against the car, frowning as the irritating voice blares from the speakers, refusing to switch itself off, I unbuckle Freedom's seat belt, sliding him out of his car seat and onto my lap, smoothing down his tangled hair.

I kiss his forehead. 'Did you hear that, Freedom? We're almost there!'

The false joy in my voice is very apparent, but thankfully, the five year old doesn't seem to notice. He is too immersed in his own fits of laughter and excitement.

'Daddy! Mummy!' He crows. 'We here! We here!'

I laugh lightly, attempting to keep the mood light, and to throw my Mum off shoulders. Gladly, she accepts my forced laugh and joins in with me, shaking her finger to and fro in front of Freedom's face.

'Not yet honey', she says. 'But nearly'.

While the bubble of chat and laughter increases in volume, I am left on the outside, hovering on the brink edge, deeply unsure of myself, still deciding whether I should enter or turn my back on them completely. Either way, none of them will notice me. Once they are happy, they try to avoid all depressing topics, such as myself.

I turn back to my phone.

Andy: Just so you know, I'm always here for you, no matter what.

Wanda: I know. Thanks Andy- I really appreciate it.

I sigh again before sending my next message.

Wanda: I'm never going to find a friend as good as you here.

Andy: Of course you will! In fact, you'll find better. I'm sure of it Wand. Just throw yourself out there and at least try to be normal.

Wanda: Impossible.

Andy: Rubbish. You can do it!

Wanda: I hope so.

Andy: You will. I promise.

Wanda: Pinky swear?

Andy: *sigh* Pinky swear.

Andy: Good luck on your journey Captain.

I smile. He has always loved those old movies. It is almost like routine now, and I can tell that he knows what I am going to say before I have even sent it.

Wanda: Forever and beyond.

Xxxxx

Before the car has even stopped, still in the process of rolling to a sudden halt, Freedom has removed his seatbelt, clicking open the door handle whilst pushing on the frame. He is calling out in joy, although I can't make out any single one of his words. It is almost like they have all merged together as one.

Since I am supposed to be the one to take care of him, I instantly lunge forwards, scraping my neck on my own seatbelt before wrapping my hand back around the handle, pulling the door shut. My neck goes hot as the sudden rush of blood gathers heat, and I began to feel the red liquid seep out through the broken skin. I don't even have to look down to know that it has stained my white top.

Since nobody has taken any notice of our sudden outburst, I bend down and unzip my backpack, removing a scarf from its contents before sealing it back up again, wrapping the scarf around my neck. Even if it is not the woolly kind, it is warm and absorbs the still- flowing blood from the cut. It is all I can do to hold Freedom in place, restraining him from making any reckless moves before the car is parked in the driveway and he is up and out again, tearing the door open again and leaping out, jumping up and down on the sidewalk.

In a matter of seconds, the roar of the engine dulls and the seats refrain from vibrating as the vehicle's power is shut off entirely. My heart thumping loudly in my chest, the roar of my blood rushing through my veins filling my ears, I slip shut my eyes, the world before me evaporating into the blackness from behind my eyelids.

As all of my senses become heightened and increase in sensitivity, I hear the click of the doors opening as my parents swung open their own doors, the click of my Mom's heels sounding through the open. I can also hear my dad's faint but heavy footsteps.

All I can think about is the dread and fear of what is yet to come, and many of the mistakes that I could so easily make in this new time without even blinking. I have also come face to face with the terms that no matter how many times I move, I will never properly fit in.

Last year, I had been lucky to make any friends at all, although I am guessing that I will make next to none in the days that will follow. I don't know how, but every time I think about friends, new neighbourhoods and new schools, I always find myself wanting to be sick.

Every single time, that uneasy feeling in my stomach will always return, as a result, my mind automatically accepting that there is something different about this town. The school is also larger; not meaning that I will gain upon a larger chance of making more friends, but that there will be more and more people willing to turn against me.

I have moved many times and it is always the same. There is always one event that nature will never fail to turn against me, flipping my whole life upside down in the process, forcing me to start anew, only to repeat the exact pattern over and over again. Nothing ever changes.

Eventually, I finally manage to summon the courage and strength to force open my eyes and haul my drowsy body up and out of my seat, my right hand reaching out for the door handle, pushing the door wide open while my left hand scoops my backpack onto my arm, hitching it upwards until it sits on my shoulder, dangling there from a single strap.

I wear it in this fashion not to follow the current 'trends' or 'fashions', nor to avoid being plucked out from the crowd, being named as a 'nerd', 'psycho' or anything of the sort. Whatever happens, those names always end up written plainly on a sticky back note which will always find its way onto my back. Since my left shoulder is 'injured', I am forced to wear my backpack on my right, the weight from heavy school books often crushing it in the process.

Soon enough, I am out of the car, finally standing up on two feet again, stretching out my legs whilst feeling incredibly worn and exhausted from the long drive and of lack of sleep. I have always suffered from car sickness, so sleep hadn't proved as a very sensible option at the time.

I only hope that it won't be long before I can drift off weightlessly towards the room that my family will have allocated as my own, granting my head the opportunity to rest itself upon a soft mattress and pillow. The very idea of sleep is bliss.

However, the idea of me drifting 'weightlessly' is obviously too much to hope for. My eyes are automatically drawn in the direction of the open boot, its contents bulging out. Some have been disturbed and five are balancing on the rim of the boot uncertainly, ready to drop to the ground like a stone, their insides smashing into millions of tiny pieces, glass shards raining over the ground.

I can picture the image in my mind so vividly, simply because that very happening has existed in my past. It had been my third move, and of course, I had been abandoned, left to unload the boxes from the car.

Unfortunately, the boxes had fallen and my dad hadn't been pleased about the remains of his picture frames, nor my mother about her precious ornaments, including her beloved 'cherub angels.'

I don't share her obsession on such an ornament, for comparing their lives to mine has always caused me to feel slightly down. They have turned to stone in such a perfect moment of their lives, framing that very event so that they can relive it over and over again. My life however, is not so perfect.

If every event and happening of my existence were to be listed down, I am certain that the bad would out rule the good.

Rushing forwards towards the boot, my feet dragging on the gravel, I spread out my arms, preventing any of the boxes from toppling over the edge, carefully shoving them backwards until they seemed stable and incapable of smashing.

It is now obvious that the events of the past are going to repeat themselves, yet again. Of course, I am left behind to unload while my family inspect the new house. I guess that it is what I deserve for being such an incapable child. That is what I have been told, anyhow. Not by family, of course. Just in general.

Planting my feet firmly on the gravel, ensuring that I will not topple over or lose my balance, I remove a box from the top of the pile, grunting as its weight tortures my arms, sending heavy waves of pain through my bones.

As stray beads of sweat run down my brow, I debate on setting this box aside, giving up entirely. Since I haven't the slightest idea of what might be inside the box, I decide against that matter, not wanting to risk crushing the insides when setting it down on the ground.

It is highly likely that I will drop it in the process, although I can already feel it slipping through my arms. Either way, it seems like I am going to lose possession of the box. I have proved that I am incapable of towing the box to the porch, and yet again, I am about to ruin everything.

My breaths escape from my chest in pants as the object in my arms seems to gain weight, fate deciding against me. I lean backwards, using the car as support as I slip, losing my footing, bracing myself for the impact of my body slamming against the ground…

Only the smack of my face against the solid gravel never comes. Instead, a strong pair of arms wrap around me, sending shivers down my spine. I close my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek. This has to be a dream. This cannot be real. Not now and not again. He can't be here. It is impossible.

The memory hits me like a punch in the gut, and I finally receive the impact that I have been expecting. The memory is short, and therefore, only lasts for a fraction of a second. It whizzes by me so fast, a constant reminder that I will always be alone.

His thick, muscled hand strikes my face, snapping my head to the side, my neck aching in protest. On my body, which is already covered from head to toe in bruises, a cut is forming, becoming one of many which have formed over time.

His hands or his knife blade has always been the one to cause them. Except for on my wrists and my shoulder. He has left those areas for me. It causes me much less pain. I am always careful. Never too deep, never too quick.

I am always slow and crafty. I would never have developed this habit if he had never forced me to. That is his mission of life; to inflict pain on me in every single way possible, using a variety of methods, both mentally and physically.

One way or another, it always hurt. He makes sure of that. Each scream and cry of pain is music to his ears. He enjoys it, and I hate him for it.

He also rips me apart through threats. If I do not follow through with this, he will not only make me suffer, but my family too. If so, my friends will also be in danger. I have few of them left as it is and I am not willing to throw them away. If anything, that will be wasteful, and as far as he is concerned, I am a waste of space. I do not deserve to live.

He steps forwards, throwing another kick into my side. His eyes are murderers and his large burly figure towers over me menacingly. Over time, he has battered me down. Therefore, I am weak and don't stand a single chance against him. He is just too strong.

Escape is no longer an option. He had eliminated that possibility many months ago. Each attempt of flight will always be severely punished. I deserve to feel pain. This is the only way.

'Now', he snarls, an evil smirk tugging on his lips. 'What have we got here?'

He is toying with his knife, passing it from one hand to another, stroking his fingers across the smooth cold metal. I only wish that his fingertips will catch on the blade, causing blood to flow out from his skin. I will do anything in order for him to feel the pain that he has caused me to feel over the many months that he had manipulated me and hurt me.

He taps his foot impatiently, and suddenly, tired of waiting for an answer, he lunges forwards and grabs my elbow, slicing his blade into my skin. I shrieked as he grinned, running his thumb over the fresh blood, drawing crimson patterns across my arm.

After he has savoured the moment of my agony, he pulls away, a deep frown now plastered onto his face. He is angry. It is always worse when he is in a bad mood. All of a sudden, I am terrified. No matter what I do, he will never stop.

His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down where I sit, my knees cradled into my chest, my arms wrapped securely around them. My short sleeved shirt is torn and my shorts are encrusted with mud. Aside from the fact that I am showing a great deal of leg and skin, I can't quite manage to understand what he is so upset about.

'What have you done?' He demands, his face contorted with rage.

I shake my head, confused.

He kicks my side again, my ribs throbbing as his shoe comes into contact with the bone.

'I said: What. Have. You. Done?' He repeats.

Tears roll down my face, and I wipe my hand across my cheek, the foundation that I have used to cover up my scars rubbing off, forming in clumps on the side of my hand.

'I don't know what you're talking about!' I whimper, my voice catching in my throat.

He stabs a finger at my hand, pointing at the foundation marks. When I still fail to understand, he kneels down and takes my hand, examining the marks there. I can hear him grunting, and before I can see it coming, his fist collides with my cheek, knocking me to the ground.

'What is that', he booms, my head ringing as his words flow into one ear and out the other, my brain not functioning properly.

I remain silent. He launches into speech again, his countless slaps and punches landing on my body. Not one of his attacks misses, each hit dead on centre of his chosen target, whether it is on my head, my rips, my stomach, my legs…

He never misses. He too, is also careful. He somehow manages to ensure that nobody will ever find out about this. For the rest of my life, he will continue to beat me. That fact has been engraved into my mind. He has made sure that I will never forget.

'What gives you the right to cover up these scars', he mutters, now trailing his hands up and down my body.

His touch is like poison. He makes me feel worthless just by looking at me. His words are venom. The poison is pulsing through me. His very presence is deadly.

He reaches into the pocket of my shorts, whipping out my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he scrolls through my text messages. Luckily for him, I have forgotten to delete today's inbox. Unfortunately for me, I am going to have to pay the price.

He holds the screen in front of my face, motioning to a name on the screen. The words read Walter. He is my friend, and now, he is in danger. All. Because. Of. Me.

'Who is this?' He says, commanding for me to grant him with another answer to one of his many questions.

His penetrating eyes glare at me until I eventually give in, afraid of what might happen if I don't throw all of my effort into pleasing him.

'I don't know', I say, shrugging. 'Just a friend.'

I can see it in his eyes that he doesn't believe me. Did I not sound convincing enough?

His hands refrain from making any more contact with my skin, and this time, the shiver that is brought on is stirred by relief and pleasure at his absence. I hug my knees tighter into my chest, curling up into another ball on the hard wooden floorboards, glaring down at the floor, my eyes full of terror.

I cringe away from him as he throws my phone to the ground, crunching in beneath his foot, twisting his heel round until the screen has been scarred with cracks, glass spewing across the floor.

Instantaneously, not wasting a single second, he comes at me from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist. He leans down to whisper in my ear.

'You don't deserve it', he snarls. 'Any of it'.

The world goes black.

A sharp unexpected cry escapes from my lips as I begin to fall to the ground. The box is ripped away from my arms, and just as I am about to hit the ground, the arms catch me, tugging me back up again.

I automatically survey the ground, looking through my fingertips, my hands covering my face in terror, afraid of what the remains of the box are going to look like. Anyhow, to my surprise, no remains exist. The box has simply vanished.

Shakily, I whip round, expecting to see his face. The hatred will be plain on his face. He has hunted me down again and he has come to promise me that I will never escape him.

My eyes widen as I realise that that is not the case. Standing before me is a boy with black hair and blue eyes, and relatively close looking to somewhere around my age group. The arm that had caught me now dangles loosely at his side, and the other is holding the box, which I had dropped, with ease. He smiles, stretching out his palm for me to shake.

'Hi', he comments. 'My name is Ian. It's nice to finally meet you.'