You hated your parents. Well, one of them, at least.
All he ever did was complain about how much of a failure you were to him. "Get better grades!" this and "Do more with your life!" that. The one time you got a C for Maths he beat you so severely, you didn't go to school for another week on the grounds that you were 'sick'; you were only in first grade then.
You were seven when your kind, loving, protecting mother died, leaving you alone with a mute younger sister and an abusive father. You were eight when he lost his big-shot job at some carpenter business or tradesman company - you never bothered to listen to him when he ranted about how much he did for you and your sister - and you were forced to move to a sleepy little town called Ebott, and to live in a house that was more of a shed than anything actually qualified to live in.
You were nine when your little sister was expelled from her school after she supposedly 'got into too many fights', even though she was the most passive person you knew; she wouldn't hurt a fly. You were nine and a half when your father brought home the bloodied body of the school principal, and threats to keep quiet or you would be sharing the same fate. You vividly remembered that night. You had spent it huddled in your tiny closet with your sister, your hands over her ears to protect her from the sounds of the shovel upheaving soil in the back yard. For the next few months the principal's face was all over the news, but no police officers or FBI agents showed up at their doorstep.
You were ten when your sister was finally admitted to a new school and you realised that your father wasn't going to get caught for what he did. You always stared at that patch of lawn when you daydreamed about leaving that forsaken house, moving to Alaska and getting an awesome new job as a police officer - what ten-year-old didn't want to be a police officer - to pay for an awesome new house on the mountainside.
You were eleven when your eight-year-old sister ran away - or, at least, that was how your father put it. You had a very strong suspicion that he had left her somewhere to die, and had long since lost hope that she would one day appear on the porch with a 'sorry, but it was just a huge prank and there were cameras everywhere' gift basket and her usual impish grin. You had smiled when you first thought of that scene. It was something she would do.
You were thirteen and a half when monsters appeared from Mt. Ebott. You saw them all the time on the street; there was one armless monster kid - he was literally named Monster Kid, but he insisted you call him MK - that you had become particularly good friends with one day when you went to the park. He was a few years younger than you, but you couldn't help but go along with his stupidly, childishly unrealistic ideas.
The first time you mentioned him to your father, he backhanded you and sent you to the kitchen to start on dinner early; as if that counted as a punishment.
"Monsters are just that, girl, monsters," he had said. "If I ever hear about that kid again - or God forbid, see you with one of those... those, abominations, you'll end up in the ground."
That was one of his favourite threats. You had no doubt that he would follow through with it if you disobeyed him, either.
You forced yourself to ignore MK when you saw him at the park the next day. Things just went even more downhill after that.
DON'T WORRY THIS GETS HEAPS BETTER AS IT GOES ALONG AND THE CHAPTERS WILL BE LONGER JUST PLEASE DON'T COME TO MY HOUSE WITH TORCHES AND PITCHFORKS JUST YET...