A/N
Sorry about the horrible summary. It would be a little better if there were more available characters.
I hope this updated version is a bit better than the last. I spent more time editing and changed a few important details.
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Rated M for sexual and physical abuse... maybe some lemons in a few chapters. ;)
I pushed through the double doors and walked straight ahead, not daring to glance at the faces that I knew were looking at me. You'd think I'd be used to everyone looking and whispering but truthfully it was as uncomfortable and awkward as it was the first time I had to do this. No matter how much make-up I put on it never hides the bruises completely. All I've ever wanted to be is a normal teenager that can go to school without a worry in the world. But I guess I'm not normal because all I do is worry about someone asking. Worry about my uncle coming to the school and dragging me home or yelling at me in front of everyone. He wouldn't dare hit me here, I don't think. Everyone would know for sure then and they'd definitely call the cops, but what good would that do? He is a cop.
It's the same routine every morning on a school day; get up, make my uncle breakfast, have a quick shower when he leaves the house to do whatever he does during the day, try covering the bruises with make-up and long t-shirts, then I go to school and ignore the whispers and stares. It's not the best life but it could be worse. I could be living on the streets, which, I must admit, would probably be better than staying with my uncle. I've lived with him since I was eleven, after my dad died in a car crash. My mom left me on my dad's front step when I was a newborn. Sometimes I blame all of my problems on her, but Dad always said she couldn't take care of me, so can I really blame her for everything? When I moved in with Uncle Ben, I was so happy I hadn't been put in foster care that I ignored how he treated me. When he asked for something I gave it to him. I thought it was the least I could do after he put a roof over my head.
The first time he hit me was three months after my dad died. I had been asleep and he must have been calling for me or something, but when I didn't get it for him he stormed up the stairs to find me asleep and dragged me out of bed. I was barely awake and thought I was dreaming. It was only when I felt a sting on my cheek that I came to life. I didn't cry. I just stood there in shock and terror, realizing he had hit me. It happened a lot after that. He'd hit me with his thick, leather belt, sometimes leaving gashes across my back. When he was really angry, his weapon of choice was could vary from his own fists to a kitchen knife.
When I was younger, I thought it couldn't get much worse living with him. That was until he had been turned down by every woman in the bar in one night. He came home, completely hammered, and called me out of my room. I knew he was acting strange, but didn't know why. I was only twelve and didn't hang out with any older kids, so I really didn't know much about the birds and bees. He told me to sit on his lap and, not wanting to anger him, I did. He told me how pretty I was becoming and how I was turning into a young woman, everything that now makes me lock myself in the bathroom. It happens much to often these days.
I was too scared to tell anyone about the abuse, though I knew the teachers wondered. One even asked if everything was okay at home and I'd nearly died on the spot in terror. "Yes, miss," I had quickly said and ran out of school. That was when I was fourteen. No one has mentioned anything since. And now here I am, Lily Parks, a fifteen-year-old girl who gets abused by her uncle and stared at and whispered about in school. I'm not popular, actually I don't have any friends but that's my own fault, I guess. I only talk in school when a teacher asks me something in class. Otherwise I don't say anything in fear I'll give myself away and everyone will know the truth.