WARINING: Abuse, heavy things and just not right for people who have a weak stomach.

Probably rated M,

You can choose not to read this part, it will make no difference. I will explain in the next chapter.

So this is basically where this story was born, it was also the first chapter I wrote.

Please, let me know what you think about it. Reviews mean a lot to me…

I'm not going to destroy the ending, like I did before.

I'm a really proud writer right now, so be nice!

And mostly…

Enjoy

Was this right, should I read? I mean, this was her secret. Would our new found bond shred to pieces when I read this? I wondered… But I had to, I knew I had to. She would never tell me on her own. Her hurt, her pride. She would never, I knew so much, like I knew her so well now. After the touching, after I felt her soul. Cliché, I know, but it's like I have known her for years rather then a week.

So I knew, she would just fade away in her own pain, not saying a word until it broke her completely.

I needed to do something. So I started reading

It was the only option.

It all started when my mom died.

Before that, we were a family. Before that we were just the Stevens'. Before that, we were happy.

A Father, a mother, one daughter and one son. My father had a job at a bank; he was pretty high up the career ladder; so he made a good amount of money. Money we could do fun things with, apart from the necessary stuff. We would go to the beach, cinema or went shopping till we dropped.

When he came home from wok, he was a good father; he loved me and always used to ruffle my hair when he came home. My brother Stephen was his eye apple and he had just started third grade. He was only seven, but he was smart for his age, just like I am, like I was.

I just started the seventh grade. I was eleven at that point.
I loved Stephen more than I can tell you. I always helped him with his homework when my mother was busy with her artwork or her self designed clothes. I explained everything he didn't understand took him to play gardens and always picked him up from school.

My mom and I always used to read to him. Well, actually it was my mother reading to both of us. We'd say we were reading to him because, I thought I was a little bit too old for stories, but secretly, I loved that moments with them.

Sometimes when my mother was at her work, I read to him alone, and the way he looked at me with big eyes, listening to my voice is one of the dearest memories I have of him.

When my father came in and found us sitting like that, he always used to tell my how much I looked like my mother. This was true, just like my mother I have long dark hair and green eyes that always, just like my mothers', used to shine with joy.

My mother was a good wife, good mother and at Tuesdays and Thursdays she was the upper-cashier of Fashionfable. Not because of the money, she just liked doing what she did. She was responsible for the buying and selling of the clothes. Her co-workers, of course, worshipped her. Just like she was a good mom, she was a good boss too.
I just wished she hadn't gotten that job... cause if she hadn't gotten the job, she wouldn't have to drive to work, if she wouldn't have to drive to work, she wouldn't have needed a car.

If she didn't needed a car, then she wouldn't have had the accident.

The car accident, completely not her fault. The other driver was drunk. Couldn't hold the wheel and crashed right into the little yellow car my mother was driving.

The worst thing is that she had pain. I heard the doctors tell my father that something, a pipe or so, entered her body below her ribs and exited her on the left side of her spine. It didn't hit the lungs nor did it damage the heart so she was still partly conscious when the paramedics came.

She died in the hospital, I saw her. I did.

My father was to busy to notice me and I watched her through a window. She was covered in blood and all sorts of needles and funny looking things were coming out of her body.

Luckily she saw me too; there was pain in her eyes, but also acceptation. She knew she was going to leave me. Even when I didn't.

She mouthed something at me. I read; I love you, take care of Stephen and find your…' after that that there was just a high pitched noise and my mothers eyes closed. Never to open again.

After that came the funeral. I got all sorts of hugs, some similar, some strange, but none of them was the similar embrace I was waiting for. The embrace I was never to feel again.

I saw her body, not her, just her body. Lying in the white satin, her face empty. I knew, her soul was gone. Crossed over to a place where she would be happy, and waiting for us to join her in the far, far future. I was thankful for that.

I held Stephen close to me when the light wooden box disappeared in the dark hole. He didn't understand and kept asking where mom was, which leaded to another crying round from my stuffy smelling aunts. I didn't even knew them before that day. Never seen them after that either. My grandparents on both sides were gone to. I like to imagine that she was with them.

Both of my parents had no siblings... So it was a small funeral. It was the place I accepted that my mother was gone, I wasn't over the loss. It wasn't even bearable yet, but there I realised that she never was coming back.

That was also the place my father drank his first bottle of whiskey.

He started drinking after that, he said it helped him to ease the pain. Knowing my own pain, I believed him. Was thankful he found a way to release himself from the hole that was probably just as clearly visible in his chest as it was in mine. I accepted the fact that he was sad and out of it, because of my mothers' death.

So I did what my mom asked me to do. I took care of Stephen.

Stephen and my father. I would throw away the empty bottles and clean up the mess if his body couldn't handle the alcohol. I cleaned the house and made us dinner. Witch my father never ate any from.

I picked Stephen up from school and helped him everywhere I could. Trying to refill the emptiness my mother left, at least for him. I made his homework with him. Helped him understand what he was doing. I told him when he did something wrong and complimented him when he did something good. Not only in his homework, but in what we did in general.

I told him not to pull girls hair. He asked my why and I told him it would hurt them. He frowned and after that he never pulled any girls hair on purpose again. When he did accidentally he immediately said sorry and stroked the head of the girl which hair he had pulled. Like I always did with him when he was hurt.

I waked him up in the morning and brought him to bed in the evening. I did my homework while he was playing. I gave him a few of my books when his reading got better and better.

He worshipped me, and I loved my little Stephen. Everything I did for him, I did with pleasure. All the pretty hard work was nothing to me when he smiled. He had the most beautiful smile in the world. That's why I always made sure that he brushed his teeth twice a day, so they wouldn't loose their white shine.

Meanwhile the pile of bottles I cleaned up everyday got bigger and I got worried about my father. As I remembered, he always had to go to work on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday morning. Now he hardly went to his work and when he did he went at 10 am instead of his usual 8 am.

After a while he stopped working at all. He even forgot Stephens birthday. Unfortunately, I thought back then, the money from the money, we kept in a little vase for dinner and other stuff was gone. Later I realised that he had used the money to buy his bottles. So I smashed my piggybank and used the money to buy him a small cake and the 3 little race cars he wanted. He was happy with it. We couldn't even eat the whole cake together.

I didn't even realise that my father forgot to pay the bills when an angry looking man with a grey suit got to our house. I told him my father wasn't home, he wasn't really, he was totally passed out on the couch. So it wasn't really lying was it?

What I also hadn't realised was as I was taking care of Stephen I really filled the spot of my mother. The biggest shock was when I asked him about my mother and he just looked at me with a confused look. He had forgotten all about her.

At some point there never was any money left in the vase and I used all my money on Stephens's birthday. We didn't get pocket money either. So I started working a paper round. It was barely enough to get us food and usually I gave my part of the meal to Stephen.

My grades, usually A's and B's. Started to run back. It wasn't unusual that I got home with D's. Still I did it gladly, as long as Stephen was healthy, happy and sound. I was happy too. I didn't even mind anymore to do all the work in the house, nor did it bother me to clean up my fathers mess. I did my paper round after I dropped Stephen off at home. Cooked dinner when I was done with my fathers mess for that day and after that I parked Stephen in front of the TV and did my homework. I brought Stephen to bed at about 9 and worked hard to get everything done, usually I didn't finish before I dropped down on my bed, exhausted.

It was on one of those nights that I found the boxes. The boxes with little plastic bags in them. Little plastic bags with white powder. I didn't know what it was, but after that I found the white powder all over the house. I kept Stephen away from it, just as I kept him away from my father.
I stopped taking my gymnastic classes as I did with my piano and dancing lessons... I was to busy with taking care of Shephen, my father the house and my now two jobs.

On one day, a pretty miserable day already, I got an F in math and a D in history. Stephen was being stubborn and didn't want to eat the cheap lasagne I bought. There were new boxes in the hallway, no longer disguised and the pile of bottles was bigger than ever.

As I entered the room I saw my father sitting on the couch. He wasn't the friendly, good shaped man I once knew. He was a bit fat, greasy and he looked angry. I looked at him. 'Hey dad,' I told him. 'Did you sleep well?'

That was it; I didn't say one more word than that. He whispered. 'You look so much like her. So much, just her. Exactly the same.' He walked towards me and cupped my face with his hands.

I swallowed. 'Why'd ya leave my Classy?' he asked me with a double tongue. He was drunk.

Then he started screaming. 'WHY! You fucking bitch! Why?!' He slapped me, right in the face. Once, two times, three…

I fell to the ground and saw Shephen standing in the doorway. My father hovering over me, rage clearly visible in his eyes. 'Stephen, go to your room immediately! Go work on your homework!' I ordered him. He obeyed me; he knew it was serious, because I never ordered him something. I always treated him with all my love. So he backed away to the stairs and disappeared with a confused look on his face. We always did our homework together after I came home from my under aged work. It hurt me to see him like that.

So I tried not to scream when I roughly got grabbed by my hair and pulled up. Another punch hit my face, my ribs, my stomach. He kept yelling at me, I can't remember what, but I know the words; bitch, slut, worthless brat and I hate you, were there a lot.

He threw me to the ground and kicked me one last time before he walked back to the couch and grabbed a new bottle. I slowly, painfully and trying very hard not to make any sound, crawled to the stairs and half ran half climbed to Stephens room. He wasn't there…

Eventually I found Stephen on my bed. Curled up and looking scared. He probably heard the yelling from my father…

I put my arms around him and we just laid there till he fell asleep.

I felt some blood stirring on my face, but I couldn't force myself to get up. Images of my father, standing there, my blood on his hands.

My mother staring at nothing with blank eyes. Stephen asking who I meant with 'mom'

I fell asleep with the picture we made last Christmas. That one hurt the most.

My father and mom, hugging each other while me and Stephen stood next to a giant snowman. We looked so happy on that picture.

A silent tear made his way over my in blood covered cheek.

I remember getting up the next day, quickly making my way over to the bathroom. I looked at my face. A cut on my forehead caused the bleeding and I quickly cleaned it.
My body felt sore and I wanted to lie down and just sleep, but I had to keep my promise to mom and not only to her. Stephen was my number one priority, I would never ever look at his face and see him scared again I vowed to myself.

I cleaned myself up and went downstairs. I found my dad covered in whiskey, beer and wine bottles. I threw them away and found a few empty plastic bags… I didn't want to think about what had been in them or where it was now.

I made a small breakfast and as usual I gave the biggest part of mine to Stephen... He kept looking at me, trying to find something that was wrong. He knew something was wrong, but I could hide it well. He didn't find anything.

I brought him to school, told his teacher that he hadn't been feeling well yesterday and because of that hadn't been able too make his homework. She looked at me, also searching for what was wrong, she didn't find anything either.

I went to school, didn't even bother to give the teacher an excuse for the absence of my homework and worked myself through the day.

When I picked Stephen up from his school I took him with me to my work at the supermarket Stackhouse and after that on my paper round. He didn't moan or worked up once.

I was grateful for that and bought him a chocolate bar. That would mean no meal for me tonight, but he should at least have something of a normal life. His clothes already were too small, but we didn't have the money to buy him new. I knew it, we were poor.

When we came home I immediately send Stephen up to his room to make his homework.

I peeked around the living room corner and found nothing but the usual dirt and crap from my father. He was absent again. It happened more often now. I wasn't worried. He would be back.

As I was busy making dinner for Stephen someone grabbed me by my arm.

'There you are little bitch.' My muscles tightened, but the punch still hit me hard.

I had known it would happen again, but I had hoped. That hope was now lying on the ground, shredded and visibly there. It hurt, like the punches did.

I didn't scream, I would not, give him that satisfaction. On top of that, it would scare Stephen.
My precious little angel. I would never let this happen to him. I would bear the pain and the low grades; I would work as hard as I could, as long as he was happy, I vowed once again. While my father pushed me against the wall and hit me directly in my stomach.

In the following months the beating didn't stop. It got even worse. Every day I had more bruises all over my body, I was sore all the time.

I was sure I turned 13 somewhere around there.

Everyday I got op early and did my early paper round, it was hard riding the heavy bike, but I imagined Stephen doing it and that gave me energy. I told people I was fourteen, so I could work. After that I woke up Stephen, pretended everything was all right, even though I had huge shadows underneath my eyes from too less sleep.

I went to school and tried to look normal. Or at least not get anybody suspicious. My grades kept dropping because I never had time to study properly.

At gym I always wore long sleeved shirts, I always did, preferably with turtle necks.

Out of school I picked up Stephen and went to the supermarket where he played with cans or helped me with stocking things. The supervisor was suspicious about me and Stephen being so skinny and gave us some barely out of the stock food supplies. I was utterly grateful for that, because now I could buy some new clothes for Stephen.

Still it was even harder doing my second paper round with Stephen at the back of my bicycle.

Coming home was the hardest part.

After I send Stephen, who was getting more and more suspicious, upstairs and I silently went to work. That was hard also, but even before I was done, my father came. Making everyday to a living hell.
I tried to bear it, I tried to hide the bruises and tried to behave properly, but he always would find a reason to get to me. Or he just would ignore that and hurt me anyways.

It hurt every time just as much as the first time, maybe even worse. I huffed and cringed, but I never, ever screamed. I simply couldn't.

After my dad would fall asleep on the couch, I would work till late on finishing everything I had to do. That included, washing, doing the dishes, making sure my dad didn't choke in his sleep, tiding up our way to big house, doing my homework, and a lot more. .

I usually didn't sleep until 1am in the morning, but as long both of them got enough sleep, I would be happy too. Still, my father never seemed happy; he was mean, sometimes laughing when he beat me, but never with real joy. He always got angry, mad or really sad and then took it out on me.

Did it help, I didn't know, I only knew it hurt.

Once, I threw away all my fathers alcohol.

That night he broke my rib.

Another time he would find it necessary to throw me down the stairs. I had to pretend I fell.

I couldn't give him in. He was my father, I couldn't do that. My mother would never forgive me.

Stephen and I would be separated and I couldn't live with that idea. I couldn't let anybody find out.

The only light in my life was Stephen, my little angel Stephen. His smile made it all, not better, not good, but bearable. With him, I didn't felt like curling up, trying to hold the pain inside.

The nightmares were the worst, recapping everything that happened and more things.
Stephen ripped away from me by the government. My father, going in to jail for the rest of his life.

Mostly it were shadow's, trying to eat me, trying to kill me. Yelling and screaming I wasn't worth living…

It got different somewhere around Stephen's tenth birthday, I was fourteen.

He started using the knife. Not only was I now covered in bruises and wounds, I had cuts now too.

He even carved a cross, on the inside of my left shoulder. He found that funny.

Stephen once saw it, his smile faded from his face and that hurt more than the cut itself.

I knew what my father was doing to me, I knew it was wrong, but could I give my own father to the police to rot away in jail. I couldn't.

I still searched for the man that was once in his eyes. I had to realise that man was gone, but I kept searching. Now, I wish I had given him in, but then again. Would they have believed me?

My teachers started to get irritated with me too, my earlier teachers knew about my mother dieing and me taking care of Stephen. Of course they didn't know the real, the whole story, but it helped.

I didn't bother to tell the newer, more recent teachers. They didn't like my lack of doing homework, as they said it. They told me I was lazy, and I could do much better.

I thought that was quite generous, compared to what I really was.

They would give me detention, witch meant even less time for Stephen, my work and my duties at home.

Stephen, now old enough to realise I could use some help, relieved me of some of my work at home.

My little blue eyed angel. He was everything I had.

People started to tell me I looked really unhealthy and dead on my feet all the time.

I didn't care, I always had been slim.

My father started to get op early too. Getting to me even more often now.

Hitting, kicking, beating me and scolding me in the morning and in the evening.

If I was really unlucky, even late at night. I just took it, numb and not responding. I wasn't struggling anymore. I wasn't even strong enough to try, so I just bared it.

I really didn't know where he got the money to buy all the alcohol, or the drugs.

I now knew what the white powder was and I warned my Stephen to stay away from it.

As always he obeyed me, on the rare association I ordered him something.

I also told him, not to go home before I got him to; I would not let him feel any of the pain I went through.

I think the walls in the living room showed my silhouette in multiple places, where my father threw me against them.

I tried to stop him from drinking, from yelling, so he wouldn't make Stephen scared. I tried, really.

It only made him angrier.

His eyes started to look like my mothers when she died. Every time I looked at them the hole she left hurt again.

I thought, that was bad, that it could never get any worse. How could it possibly?

I was wrong, dead wrong…

It was the day after one of the worst anger attacks my father ever had. My dad had almost broken both of my legs when he had thrown me over the kitchen table. Straight in to the wall.
His hands, fists, kept making contact with every part of my body. It was the day after I fell asleep in a corner of the kitchen. Knowing Stephen would be wondering where I was. My little angel would be scared, again, and again, it was my fault. Getting up hurt too much, so I just laid there, until my little brother, my little star, came looking for me. He hugged me in an attempt to comfort me. I think that was when my father realised he had a son to.

The next day I couldn't bring myself to do my paper round. I knew that meant not getting enough money this week and Stephen saw my worries and did the paper round for me.

My little saviour. He knew where to be, because after a beating like last night, I usually took him with me on my morning round.

I was lucky on 2 grounds, I didn't have to do my round, and second, Stephen was out of the house when our father woke up early again that morning.

While he slapped me, he screamed: 'your mother left you didn't she, the fucking slut, the dirty bitch!'

I thought it was one of the most painful things he could've ever said, man was I wrong. I had been wrong about everything.

I cried, but I didn't scream or yell.

He punched me in my stomach and I fell to the ground, sobbing softly.

Then he said the words that are forever engraved in my mind.

'Where's your little brother, sweetie? Where's the little brat huh?'

My eyes flew open, not Stephen! Not my brother! Never!

I tried to distract him and pushed him away, with all the force I had left. Witch wasn't much, but he was drunk and lost his balance and fell on a pile of full bottles, they broke…

He got furious.

It was worth it though, because he didn't mention Stephen again.

He was gone by the time my brother got home. I brought him to school where his teacher asked me concerned if I was feeling okay. I answered that I was feeling a little sick.

In fact I was. I was feeling horrible, not only because of my aching body.

Also I was worried sick about Stephen and my father asking about him.

I had to keep him away from my sweet sunshine.

After school I skipped detention, tomorrow I would get more anyways and went straight to Stephens's school.

There waited the most horrible thing ever.

In the form of Stephens smiling teacher.

'Oh, hello sweetie! I thought you weren't coming anymore?' she said to me.

I already started to panic. 'What, what do you mean?'

'Your father already picked up Stephen, I though you were sick, you told me this more... hey where are you going?'

I didn't even hear what she was saying anymore, I raced home, one thought in my mind.

Stephen, Stephen, he's got Stephen!

I fell of my rusty bike trying to get to the door of our house as fast as possible.

I ran in. The door slammed against the wall.

'Stephen! Stephen! Sweetheart where are you!!' I screamed, shrieked, forced out of my painful throat.

I heard a muffled scream from the kitchen.

It echoed in my mind as I ran towards the sound…

I froze in the doorstep. There was my father, with my barely eleven years old brother, covered in what must be Stephens blood. His massive hands, that hurt me so many times around my angel's throat.

Stephens's beautiful angelic eyes shined, with fear.

Shaking, wiggling to get out of his fathers choking grip, his beautiful little smile now malformed into a deaf scream.

No, not him, was the only thing I was thinking.

I lunged at my father, pulling his arms away from Stephens's throat.

'Stephen! Get away! Get out of here! Now!' I yelled as I tried to hold off our father.

That was the first time he ever disobeyed me.

'no!' he said. It surprised me so that I lost my balance, immediately I was on the floor by a punch of my fathers fist.

'stop! Stop hurting her, stop hurting my angel! You monster!' he yelled in his young voice.

Stephen stepped in front of me, protectively spreading his arms.

One punch of my father had him slamming against the wall.

I crawled towards him. Embraced him, protecting him with my own body.

'Shh, it's gonna be okay. Don't worry; I'm not going to let him hurt you!'

He weakly looked up at me. 'but he's gonne hurt you Angela, I don't want him to hurt you. I love you!' he told me.

Tears ran over my cheeks, I never had been moor certain to never let anything hurt him.

'I love you too Stevie, so much, he won't hurt you, I promise!

I felt a sharp pain on my back and hissed. Stephen cried now too.

'It's okay sweetie, don't cry!'

Another hit on my back, and a kick against my head made me almost fall on top of Stephen.

I didn't scream, like I never did. I wouldn't let Stephen hear that. Scar him.

He looked at my face; saw the pain now, me not able to hide it.

'no! Angela!' he whispered and then pushed me away.

I fell to the ground, another wave of pain fled through my body.

'Stephen!' I moaned.

He stood in front of me, in the line between my father and his object, my body.

I saw the oh so similar silver shine of the knife. 'No! Stephen!' I now whispered.

'Get out of the way! Now!' my father yelled at him. I tried to get to Stephen, but the pain was unbearable.

'no! You are not going to hurt her anymore.'

The silver shone, flitted through the air. A scream, and another, both unfamiliar.

I realised I was screaming, for the first time since my father started his abuses, I screamed.

Not for myself, but for Stephen.

With unbelievable strength I got up and got to Stephen. The silver knife standing in his little chest.

Blood gushing over his yellow t-shirt. Eyes open in horror.

'Did he... hurtyu... agan… Angelle?' he coughed out. 'No, he didn't but,' I tried to say

'Good, my angelle safe!' he whispered. 'I love you Stephen, always will.' I told him

He closed his eyes, 'I lof you thoo' and I felt his body go limp.

'Stephen,' I whispered. 'My Stephen.'

I didn't saw the police coming in, after a passenger outside heard the screaming, my first screaming in almost 3 years or was it four?

I didn't saw the horror in their eyes when they saw a crying girl with an ripped off shirt, bruises and half healed cuts now visible, holding a dead boy with a knife in his chest.

I didn't saw them arresting the man responsible for all of that, later proved by the fingerprints on the knife, his fingers fitting perfectly in the bruises around my neck.

I didn't saw the disgust on their faces when they saw my body, mine and Stephens blood on my fathers clothes.

I didn't saw nothing, only Stephens still face.

Since that day, since the day my father killed Stephen because of me, I haven't said a word, not one sound has escaped my lips, except at night, when the nightmares come and I wake up, screaming.

I don't say anything to the stupid, bored psychiatrist, no words for the doctors, only interested in my body's health, when it is my entire soul that is burning from inside.

I don't answer the questions from child services on what family I would like to be adopted by.

Like anyone would like to adopt someone like me, I'm not even worth talking to.

My Stephen. If you hadn't died for my life, I would end it myself.
Every time I think of you, mom, even my father it feels like I'm still being stabbed and cut. From inside.

I can't stand the pain, but I won't bother anyone with it.
I will stay silent, nobody is there to talk to.

Please, let me join my Stephen, my mother some day.

I was good, wasn't I? I took care of them, I tried so hard, but it wasn't good enough.

I wasn't strong enough. I stood up pride, always, bearing the pain, but that night, that particular night.

I wasn't strong enough.

I failed

I…

The Journal stopped there, it wasn't a diary, it was a story, a story, everything that happened to her, everything. I hadn't thought she could become dearer to me then she already was.

The thing was. I loved her even more now.

This was her story

A story of an Angel…