Her face felt hot and sore. Her arms were covered in bruises. Her hair tussled up. All messy and disowned, all bloody and alone. No one to tell, no one to help. It was a matter of time before she cried, tears rolled down her cheeks. Not long before they streamed down her face.
She cries into her pillow, Grabbing the pillow tight as every thought of what she could do too him accured. She's such a pretty girl, so smart. What a waste. What a shame.
Her pillows were damp, time to take a look at the damage. Under her new top appeared scars, bruises, and blood. She takes off the blood soaked top and puts a grey singlet on.
She run's her fingers through her hair, she feels bumps. How did this become? Why did this become? Why her? So many questions, so little answers. She was used to this. Ever since she was 12 years old.
'I'm useless; I can't stand up for myself, I can't fight' she whispers to herself.
She stays out late so the beating's are short, her mother never witness's as she always works late. And the Godsend days are when her mother's at home or on her day off. No violence accures in the house.
She loves summer camp, it's the only summer she can get away from it all, at any cost for that matter. She begs and begs and begs her mother. Her mother always says yes.
Now she sits, legs crossed on her bed. Thinking about what happened before.
'I wish someone could take it all away, I wish for it to stop, some one please get me outta here' she prays.
The abuse makes her wonder if there is a God. If God was real, wouldn't he stop this?
She slides the large makeup case from under her bed and places it in front of her. She unbuckles the buckles and it starts to pop up at her. Foundation, Powder, Tanning Lotion, Stuff she'll need to cover it up. How did she get the money for this stuff? She works late nights at the diner downtown. She would spend half a week's salary on make up so she would look at least normal. No one would suspect a thing; they could play happy families.
Music somehow calmed her nerves; her iPod was her favorite item, along with her guitar, laptop, songbook, and keyboard. She placed her earplugs in her ears and listened to the music flow. It put a little smile on her face.
'I've never gone with the wind just let it flow…' She heard Taylor Swift's 'Crazier' sing.
It was a nice tune, her absolute favorite. She was a variety person when it came to music.
They all loved her, her friends; she had the best since of humor and personality. It was a huge surprise to herself. Underneath the abuse, she was loving and caring. But pushed away every nice guy that asked her out.
'I'm not ready for a boyfriend' she would say
'But you're 17!' Her best friend would reply.
She would then roll her eyes. Her best friend already had 3 boyfriends on the past, currently single.
The next sound she hears is footsteps, coming from the staircase. What dies she do?
She puts the case under her bed and races under the covers.
"You still up?" Her mother says as she opens her bedroom door.
Light peaks out a little bit.
"Yeah mom, sorry"
As her mother shuts the door, she exhales gratefully. Thank God! It wasn't her father, finishing what he had started. But God! She is lucky that he hasn't yet.
She turns off her blue iPod, and lies down. Her head hits the still damp pillow. She turns it over to a half decent side and closes her eyes. She should tell her mom but she didn't want her mom to get involved. In this case get abused too.
Maybe it might be her mom's day off. A day to get rid of any old bruises. That wouldn't make a difference though.
It's almost midnight; 5 hours ago the daily madness happened. Leaving the man responsible's daughter, injured again. Then again the next day.
Bruise by Bruise. Scar by Scar. Wound by Wound.
Her name is Mitchie Torres, and she is broken by abuse, but her spirit and hope is not.