Broken: Chapter One- Loss

A/N: Okay, I know I should be concentrating on updating my other story; Evil Has Two Sides, (Check it out if you haven't already, please!) but this sprang into my head whilst I was in Geography and wouldn't go away, so I wrote it down.

Disclaimer: I'm not claiming.

Summary: He loathes me. The hatred he channelled through his fists left me shattered and bleeding. I thought I was beyond repair, but then I met Sirius and my world changed forever.

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The icy chill of the wall I am pinned to seeps through my shirt, oozing into my bones until the cold engulfs me entirely, but I don't notice it. I can't feel anything at all, not the texture of the moss attached to the basement's wall under my hands, the confident trickle of black drainpipe water cascading down it- making it appear that the wall is bleeding ink; crying pitch tears as it witnesses the act before it. Not the hardened knuckles of the man, who has me shoved roughly into the concrete fence supporting the house above us, as he plunges them repeatedly into my torso.

By natural law, I should experience the nicks of pain, them blossoming into flowers of pure agony as he does this, but I don't. Not one emotion, I'm empty of any feeling as he throws me to the floor, viciously attacking every inch of me he can reach with his fists, his uncontrollable fury blinding him, causing him to lash out sightlessly at me, catching my empty face repetitively in his rage.

Depression surrounds me. It follows, trailing behind at my feet, waiting for its opportunity to strike if my barrier slips; tense, expectantly, if I snap, it'll smother me, drown out everything I have, that I feel, until I won't care anymore about anything.

I broke in the end.

It isn't too bad, the depression; I can be happy, although the feeling is muted, but I have forgotten what it used to be, so now I have nothing to compare it with. I exist, I float around in pretence, my friends do not suspect, they never have; they have always known me to be quiet, subdued, so; like me, they have nothing to compare- therefore I am normal to them. Everything is an echo of its former self, but I cannotremember, so I am content …

When my father first began this practise, I could feel every blow, or more accurately, the hatred and resentment behind them, as he bruised me with his hands, the disgust, and the enjoyment in his rabid eyes as he heard each cry, each echoing reply of the pain he inflicted upon me issue from my blood stained throat. As I registered the fact that he took pleasure in my suffering, realisation hit me; this wasn't my dad anymore, this new person couldn't differentiate me from shit, who was so engulfed by his hatred of me- that hatred's origin I knew nothing of- that he didn't care whether I lived or died- no, he did, he didn't want me to escape the torture he put me through, so he kept me alive, barely. That was the moment, as I lay, bruised and bleeding, tears seeping through my eyelashes, that I resolved never to shed another tear, to cry another sob for the man that I thought loved me; never again would he hear me beg him to stop, to weep over the physical signs of his rejection when I was alone in my room after he was finished inflicting his wounds on my body.

So, the next time my father entered my room, clasped my neck, threw me to the floor and proceeded to beat the crap out of me, I allowed myself to slip into the welcoming arms of numbness that had always stalked in the shadows every time I was beaten; to lose the recognition of the pain he administered to me and leave the bedroom of number sixteen Angel Close far behind, speeding away to another place where I could forget what was being done to my body, and for once, relax my guard; wave away the tense, anxious feeling that came with living in close proximity to the person you hated and feared in equal measure the most in the world.

But all too soon, I would have to leave my mental sanctuary and return my consciousness to my body, inspect the damage and concentrate on making the visible wounds unnoticeable; that would be all I needed- others getting wrapped up in my poisonous life, dooming themselves to a life with no future. For my father had many, well, not friends exactly; more servants, people who did his bidding and would avenge his imprisonment if the current happenings came to be brought to the attention of the Law.

And so, time passed. The attacks increased in frequency and ferocity, until it became a constant thing, the numbness, and as more weeks dragged by, I found I couldn't resurface; but it was an advantage, that even if my father took me by surprise on a sudden impulse to hit something, I was always prepared, so now I never once felt the pain he poured onto my shoulders in such vast quantities that it would horrify any other being if they witnessed such a monstrous occurrence. But now I could no longer feel any other emotion; I forgot how to be happy, I never experienced sadness, confusion or hate; I could no longer remember what joy felt like, or what it was to be embarrassed or annoyed. I became a hollow being, a walking shell, and I never attempted to haul myself out of the pit I had thrown myself into in desperation as the blows became too heavy to bear; I had no reason to; no loved one to have to care for, to act normal for, no human being that would become suspicious if I failed to seem like I was meant to- a girl that was seventeen, in the Order of the Phoenix and fighting for what she believed in alongside her friends. Harry and Ron, Remus, Sirius, Tonks, Neville, Ginny… … all those that had only ever seen the empty side of me, and knew no different, therefore could not realise that this wasn't my normal, inside self. They, however special they were to me, are kept at a distance, so I can not become so attached that if anything happened to them, I would be beyond repair, although they didn't realise this, they think that is who I am; but it isn't.

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A/N Okay, so the first chapters up, tell me what you think, please! Not wanting to sound like a sad person with no life, but I like them, so leave me some!

GP