SornaAcadi: This is my first story of its kind:D I hope you all enjoy and please review to give me ideas!
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They all say that counseling can help you through virtually anything. I disagree. When your mother is a prostitute, your father left you, and you have no one to rely on, it doesn't work. Not for me anyway. My mom brings home at least two guys home from the bar every night for them to pay her, fuck her, beat her, and finally leave. Even though my mom is the nicest woman I know.
She has beautiful, short, and spiky raven black hair with crimson red bangs. Her body is very lean and slender. On average she goes to the gym four days a week. Her name is Faith. I never call her mom, mommy, mother, or anything like that. It's Faith, all it has been, how it always will be. We get along nine times out of ten, but there are always those days when I feel as though she would rather have someone rip her ears out than listen to my advise.
Today -like any other day- I was awoken by Faith screaming from the kitchen.
"Brandon, if you don't get up now you won't make it to school in time!"
Shit. I'll get up in a second, I thought.
"Okay!" I said screaming as loud as I could out of grumpy rage. Once I finally rolled out of bed, I went to get ready for school in my bathroom. Stumbling over mountains of clothes, I finally made it to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror shocked me. Anyone with a brain could tell that I obviously didn't get a good night's rest. My rusty brown hair looked as though I just escaped a vicious tornado; below my blue-green eyes, complimenting my hair issue, were dark crescent shaped bags, I looked like a train wreck. I couldn't help it though; I had this ludicrous reoccurring nightmare.
I seem to always be locked inside a room with a glass ceiling, like I was a prisoner. The room could be no larger than my ten by ten bedroom. Apart from my bedroom, this horrid room was covered in torture tools and in the middle was what looked to be a surgery-operating table. But this is no ordinary operating table. It had shackles and electric wire running around the rusted reddish-brown table.
Above the gruesome platform were what seemed to be hooks to accommodate more torture tools, along with a pair of yellow gloves at the end. On either side of the hooks held two very dim bucket lights that gave hardly any light. The shower tiled floor followed up three of the four walls. The grout looked as though it had become a residence for the mold, moss, and plants growing on the walls.
The tiles were a repulsive brown red that seemed to be old crusted blood. In the back of the room was a cabinet that didn't have any doors. Thrusted upon the shelves were many types of saws and knives. Ranging from the ever so common hand saw to the dual-blade electric powered hand saw; accommodating the saws were the incredibly razor-sharp knives. No different than the rest of the room the saw and knives were very rusted and bloodstained.
On the last wall that didn't have any tiles, was a mirror. The entire wall was one gigantic mirror that looked divine and spotless. On the edges were beautiful engravings of tulips and dandelions that extended around the rim of the reflecting wall.
With a mirror you would expect to see yourself, but with this mirror you don't only get to see yourself, you witness yourself being brutally tortured. There is always a mysterious and mentally disturbing man. He seemed to be six foot two. He always wore this black plastic apron with three handy pockets located in the front. Under the apron was a pair of dark blue jeans that noticeably were dark only from the blood that had settled in.
I always wonder what his face looked like, but every time I see him, he has a silky white mask that had blood and dirt marks all over it. The man always seems the be torturing me every time; only every night I see something different happen to my body.
Last night, I remembered him grabbing a hammer and lightly tapping my "doubles" knees, teasingly saying, "Do you feel this? I find this very suspicious sir. I use to be a doctor and your knee should be moving when I tap right here. That's very odd. Hmm... Well, no worry sir I shall just tap a little harder. Usually your nerves can tell when a stronger force is applied." With his husky voice finally reaching an abrupt end, the last thing I saw was the twisted man raising his right arm, and in it was the hammer. He seemed to take a tiny step backward to increase the momentum of the impact that would soon land on my twin's left knee. With a final chuckle that came from behind the stained mask, the hammer came flying down, and right before it hit, I woke up.
I consider this one of my lucky nights though. Almost every time I see the reflection of myself getting beaten, I wake up with a minor or major injury in the same exact area.
Although I was relieved that I woke up with no scars, I had to do something about getting ready for school.
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