Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It's around 2 am now, or something, I'm not really sure because I left my phone at home. But anyways I'm walking down my street; the wind must have dried my tears or something because I don't remember ever stopping crying. I never feel more alone than I do when I walk home from the corner; my corner.
Finally, I reached the house, only to realize it's locked. I sigh and reach up to the broken light I have to illuminate the porch- although what good can it do, it's broken. I really should get that fixed, but I'm really too exhausted to put any thought into it. Finally my hands set on the small, cool piece of gold hidden away in the crevasses of the light; my house key. I unlock the door, put the key back in place, and thankfully enter the house. There's nothing but silence and darkness. I swear sometimes my house is a symbol, like the symbolism you learn about in English class, where I live represents how I live my life- in silent loneliness and darkness. Hah.
I gently bend down to peel my high heels off my feet, carefully avoiding my forming blisters from walking. Then I trudge myself up the stairs to collapse. Well, there some other business I have to take care of first…
I walk up the stairs, ignoring the sting of my blisters hitting the wooden steps, and walk down the dark hallway; past the half-bathroom, past the spare room, past the forbidden room...and I end up at my destination: my room. It's not like whoa humongous or anything, but it has a conjoined bathroom and a pretty decent size, so who's complaining? Not me, thats definately the least of my problems.
The bathroom is my next stop. I flip the light on, and wait for my eyes to adjust to the lighting so all the stars floating around my throbbing skull will fade away. Scratch that, I can't wait any longer, it's hurting so badly. What is hurting exactly? My insides, every single organ, blood cell, muscle, it all aches. Too bad I can't be immune to emotional pain then maybe I wouldn't have to do this. I pick up my shiny little life savor and place it to my wrist, it's going to overlap an old scar but I can't do anything about it; I'm running out of room quickly. "Here's for you Blake." My voice is a low whisper, so low I feel the vibrations from my vocal chords rattling my skin. One straight, deep red line. "Here's for you daddy dearest." Two more deep red lines. "Here's for you mommy, I miss you so much, I'd bleed for you any day." Three more deep red lines, bringing the grand total to six cuts. I didn't notice my tears started back up again until some of the blood began to smear. Just perfect…not. I wipe my eyes with my good arm and flick the light back off.
Too tired to do anything else, I wrap the wounds in a wash cloth and tie it tight with my hair tie. Now I'm changing into some sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt that's quite big on me; it's getting harder to fight unconsciousness, but I'll manage. I take my earnings from tonight and place it on my desk, without looking at the money once. It sickens me, it haunts me. Finally, I glance at my digital alarm clock, it reads 3:15. "Shit," I mumble out loud as I flop down on my bed; I literally feel everything in my body relax into the softness of it. I can't move, I'd like to think it's just because I'm so tired and comfortable but I can't. I'm also immobilized by the dying of my insides. School is going to be hell tomorrow.
I begin to think, something I do every night, but more so on the nights I see him. I'm a prisoner to my own mind, and trust me; reliving any pain through memories doesn't make things any better. So I begin to think; who am I?
Who the fuck am I?
Well if you looked at my birth certificate you'd find Lillian Marie Truscott printed on there by the lovely doctors who helped bring me into this lovely world. However, I don't go by what the paper says I'm Lilly, not Lillian. My father named me that, my father called me that, and I refuse to go by that. I was born March 16th, 1992, which whoop-de-doo makes me sixteen years old in the present time of 2008. I'm turning seventeen this year.
That birth certificate was signed by none other than Heather and John Truscott-my parents. There's dear old dad, never was close with him. Ever. Let's go through a time line of what he put me through, shall we? Years 1-7 of my life were okay with him, he was rarely there and whatnot. Whatever. 8 years old to 10 years old: this was the "lets take advantage of her not starting her period yet" phase. My father raped me for two years. 11 years-15 years old: he gave up on the sexual acts when he started getting his affairs to take care of that job. So he started physically abusing me. I started cutting myself when I was twelve years old. Not badly and not regularly, but I'd say one cut like every week. I didn't start cutting as bad as I do now until I was fifteen. A month after I turned sixteen, my father left the house and never came back. I'm not complaining one bit, but I became screwed for money. I lived alone and I had no job. My father, once again, has screwed me over.
Then there my mother who was, and will forever be, the most important person to me that ever walked the planet. Unfortunately, a year ago on my fifteenth birthday she passed away. It shocked me, it killed me, and it depressed the living fuck out of me. That's when I started cutting badly and when I started popping the depression pills. It was terrible, it still is terrible. I love her so much, I need her so much.
Out of all the people I've ever come in contact with, the only person besides my mother who I actually give 2 cents about is my best friend Miley Stewart. Her life means more to me than my own does, although that's really not saying much because I don't give a fuck about my life, but you get my point. I can tell this girl almost everything, but my lifestyle I just can't bring myself to tell her about. Miley knows about my bad situations with my deadbeat dad; she's the only one who CAN know I live alone without child services coming and whisking me away. She knows how I have to pop depression pills every day, and she knows I've gotten around with guys because well, she has too. She knows I smoke a whole hell of a lot, because she's the one who turned me onto smoking to relief my stress. But she doesn't know how I get the daylights fucked out of me by Mr. Blake Goodman one to two nights a week just to survive, she doesn't know I slash the fuck out of my wrists all the time, she doesn't know I do drugs. I just can't tell her that shit; I can't hurt her like that. Miley has the perfect life, and I don't envy her, I'm 100 percent happy for her. I wouldn't want her life to be screwed up like mine; I know how much it hurts.
I'm a junior, that's eleventh grade, at Seaview High School. To me, school is the most pointless thing ever created. I used to be a straight-A student, with hopes and dreams and ambitions; but they were crushed when my mom died and all this stuff started. I don't fail, but I barely pass. It's better than staying behind in the godforsaken school another year. Plus, I'm always too numb to do the effort. I just do not care.
So there's Blake Goodman, the most gorgeous person to ever walk the halls of Seaview High School. He's an eighteen year old senior who's family is probably richer than Bill Gates, no lie. Every girl in school would pay HIM to fuck him, but he doesn't play around with sex. You'd expect him to, I know. He's a player with everything but sex. I think he's only had sex with 5 or 6 different girls, because Blake Goodman only wants the best of the best to ride his cock. He's the biggest asshole; and I'm ashamed to have to call him my savior, my provider. When my father left the house to never return, I got desperate. I knew Blake had money, and I embarrassingly found myself going up to him one day to ask if there was any way he could get me a good paying job. He told me to meet him at a street corner, the street corner, that night. That's when I found out my job was to become his own personal little prostitute. Yeah, somewhere down the road I fell in love with him and he just treated me rough and like shit. I started adding cuts because of him, and he knew it. He actually liked knowing he could be such a powerful impact on my life. I quickly fell out of love with him, and started hating his guts; almost as much as I hate my father. But it is good money, and I hate to say it but his touches drive me wild.
My thought as being interrupted by my body screaming in protest for my staying awake. But my last thought before I slip into sleep...I know who I was, who I am, what I've become, how lost and alone I am;
But I don't know what I want to be. And that scares me.
Well it isnt the best chapter ever, but you had to know what was going on with Lilly sometime!
If you review, you get to REALLY start the story next chapter, and the loe ;)