Disclaimer: I don't own any of the LOTR characters (that's all Tolkien's) ... regrettably ... what's mine are the OC's … and the mistakes … yep, that's about it.

WARNING: There is DV in this chapter, so just be aware of that ... read at your own risk.

CHAPTER 1

Some say that the journey is more important than the destination. I dare to disagree.

For me, it's always been about the destination.

Everything I've ever done has been driven by a simple wish. I wanted to be normal.

To fit in, to be accepted, maybe even liked. That's all I ever wanted. I know that it doesn't sound like much, and it isn't, at least not anymore. However, all those years ago it felt unattainable. It was this small wish that kept me going, nothing else.

Now, in hindsight, I realise that striving for normality wasn't exactly normal. Most people want to be great, or at the very least, unique. But as a child, I didn't understand that. I didn't understand a lot of things.

I thought being normal meant being quiet, obedient and as close to invisible as humanly possible. Because when I was all those things, I was safe – I was ignored. When I wasn't, I always regretted it.

That regret would usually come in the form of fresh bruises or another scar.

And yet, I hadn't thought there was anything wrong with that. Nor had I thought that there was anything wrong with my parents. They were my parents – they knew what was best for me, right?

I remember being about five years old, watching other kids play at the playground while their parents stood nearby, attentive and caring. Mine were nowhere to be seen. And I pitied those children. Because I knew from experience that this kind of attention didn't last long, a couple of hours, maybe a week, but eventually it would end. And then the indifference would come back, dashing all hopes of a different future, leaving me feeling empty, as if I'd lost something important.

Hope is a dangerous thing. And yet, when I was small, I always had it. Every time my parents offered even the slightest gesture of warmth, I hoped – maybe, this time, things would be different. Perhaps even better.

I was always wrong.

Still, no matter how many times I was proven otherwise, I never learned my lesson.

Every time when the indifference returned, I was left confused and wondering – have I imagined it?

It's no surprise that as a child, I believed the other kids had it just as bad, if not worse.

That being said, I loved my parents. In my mind, there was never any doubt about that. And to this day, I like to think that in some weird way they had loved me too.

They certainly had high expectations for my future career. I was supposed to go to pre-med and then become a doctor. I remember I used to study relentlessly in order to get into the college of their choosing. I hoped that if I got in, they would finally be proud of me.

I was wrong.

The moment I got my acceptance letter; I realised that I couldn't keep on living like this. I put years of hard work into getting accepted, yet my parents weren't ecstatic, they were indifferent. Again. To them this wasn't an achievement – it was expected. The bare minimum.

That's when I knew: things would never change.

If anything, leaving for college would make things worse. The tuition was steep and if I let them pay it, I would never hear the end of it. Yet if I took out a student loan, they wouldn't let me live it down either. I would be either ungrateful or stupid.

No matter what I did, it wouldn't be good enough.

I would never be good enough.

But I wanted to be, I wanted to be enough.

And maybe if I couldn't be enough for them, I could try being enough for myself. That was why the moment I turned eighteen, I packed my bags and left.

The beginnings weren't easy. I had no work experience, no real plan. Frankly I was out of my depth when it came to the whole adulting business. But somehow, I managed. To be honest, it was through sheer luck. And although I worried my parents wouldn't just let me go, to my surprise, they did.

I ended up in a town that was about an hour away from my parents' house. Far enough, that they wouldn't randomly stumble on me. Yet close enough, that I didn't feel completely lost.

To find a job where my nerdiness and quiet demeanour were a benefit and not a vice took a couple of tries. However, once I did things started to settle.

The bookshop I worked at was a peaceful place. The owner was an older but energetic lady. She was no more than five feet tall, loved to wear cardigans and to talk about politics. Sometimes, I wondered whether she really needed the help or whether she just wanted some company. Regardless, within three months of leaving home, I had a steady income.

At first, I took things one day at a time, too focused on survival I didn't have the time to worry about the bigger picture. When I wasn't working, I was deciding whether to buy dinner or gas. Slowly, though, I was getting a hang of it.

First big success came when I finally broke even. Another when I saved enough money to rent. It took me months to be able to afford the downpayment. However, the small studio apartment was totally worth it.

Life settled into a quiet routine and for a while, I was content. However, after a couple of years, I started to want more. I wanted to go back to school. I did have regrets about not attending college. And although I didn't want to become a doctor anymore, I still craved knowledge.

Looking through the majors, I finally settled on mathematics.

It was the right choice. Numbers had always calmed me down. Ever since I was a child, I'd found comfort in calculations, in logic, certainty. I loved the peace numbers brought to my life.

The bookshop owner supported my decision, she even allowed me to work part-time, so I could attend classes.

Those four years were the best of my life. I learned a lot and although money was always tight, I finally felt like I wasn't just surviving. I was alive. Maybe that was the reason why it flew by so quickly and before I knew it, I was inviting the owner to my graduation.

She was flattered and assured me that she would be there. She inquired whether I planned to invite my parents. However, once I expressed that no, I had no intention to, she never brought it up again.

That's why I was so shocked to see them standing beside her at the ceremony. To this day, I don't know how she contacted them. If it had been just them, I would have bolted. But I couldn't – not with her there. I don't think she realized what she had done.

She seemed to approve of my parents. She smiled at the bouquet my father handed me and beamed at my mother's praise. But all I felt was an all-consuming sense of dread. This wouldn't end well, at least not for me. I was sure of it.

I knew better than to trust their flowery words and smiles. I was twenty-five now, no longer a child. And yet, the fear that gripped me didn't feel adult at all. I was terrified, so much so that when they suggested a celebratory dinner at their house, I couldn't refuse.

The dinner went surprisingly well – probably because the bookshop owner was there. It went so well, that for the first time in years, I allowed myself to hope. Maybe they had changed. Maybe it would be different this time. That was why, when they offered me a room to stay the night, I accepted. The bookshop owner declined, saying she'd bring my car there on the morrow. Deep in my heart I knew that staying was a bad idea. Still, hope is a dangerous thing.

So, I stayed. I shouldn't have, but I did. I was dumb.

Three days. That's how long it took this time. Some might say it was my fault. I got too comfortable, I let my guard down. On the third night, over dinner, when my dad asked which med school, I planned to attend now, I corrected him. I assured him, that although I was planning on continuing my studies, I wouldn't be going to med school. Instead, I was going to Scotland for my PhD. I had already done all the necessary paperwork and would be leaving in two weeks' time.

To say that my parents hadn't taken the news well would be an understatement. While my dad mostly just complained about how ungrateful I was, my mom was livid and once she had realised, that I wouldn't be changing my mind, she slapped me. Her pristinely manicured nails sliced right across my cheek.

It took a moment for the sting to register. But when it did, I knew. I wasn't staying a second longer. Since becoming an adult, physical violence was where I drew the line, no exceptions. I didn't do second chances.

I stood up from the table. "I think, we are done here,"

"That's no way to treat your mother, young lady" my father growled.

Perplexed, I turned to face him. "And this, is no way to treat your daughter." My voice was steady, but my heart pounded as I moved towards the door, desperate to leave.

However, as I passed him, he grabbed my arm.

"Where do you think you're going?"

I froze. Fear gnawed at me, and for a second I even considered apologizing – giving in, making it easier. Still, in the end I thought better of it, submission wouldn't lead anywhere. I had my own life now, and I wasn't about to give it up, no matter how terrified I was. This time surrender wasn't an option. I needed to stand my ground; I needed to scare them off.

So, making sure my voice was steady, I answered "Home."

When he didn't react, I added, calm and firm "I think it would be better if we talked about this some other time."

Surprisingly, it seemed to work. His grip loosened, and he let go of my arm. "Alright," he said. "Some other time."

Relief surged through me, so much so that I missed the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Not wanting to linger, I reached for the door. Then–

Crash.

Pain exploded at the back of my head. I staggered.

And suddenly, I was on the ground, curling in on myself as the kicks rained down.

"You–" Kick. "Ungrateful–" Kick. "Bitch–" Kick.

The insults blurred together. "After all we've done for you?" "You should be ashamed!" I lost count, lost track of time itself.

My mind slipped away. I wasn't here anymore, at my parents' house – I was home. Safe. I tuned it all out. The kicks, the insults. It would pass. I just had to stay hidden inside my own head – Safe.

Then came the fall. It took me by surprise. One moment, I was on the ground. The next I was airborne, soaring through the air – weightless. Then –

Thud.

I wasn't weightless after all. The impact was sickening. Pain erupted everywhere. My ankle throbbed, my ribs screamed with every breath, my vision blurred. The last thing I heard before darkness took me was his voice, cold and final:

"You wanted time? Here – you can have all the time you want."

Waking up in the dark was startling. I couldn't see anything, and it was too cold for my comfort. Not that there was any comfort to be had, my whole body hurt. I wasn't even sure where I was at first. The cold made it feel like a cellar or basement, but I couldn't be sure.

That's when the memories came flooding in – the argument, the beating, the fall.

The fall, yes – he had pushed me down the stairs, the stairs to the cellar. I remembered now.

Strangely, the realization brought a twisted sense of relief. At least I wasn't in some psycho's basement in the middle of nowhere. I was still at my parents' house. And no matter what, I didn't believe they actually wanted me dead.

With that thought I tried to assess my situation. My hands were bound behind my back. A rope? Really? That was a new low. Worse, with hands behind my back, I had almost no way to tend to my injuries. Or to do anything at all.

I tried to move my feet. A wave of pain shot through my ankle at the movement. Either broken or badly sprained. I hoped for the latter. The bright side of this experiment was the realisation that my feet weren't bound. Although considering the way my ankle was throbbing from just a slight movement, I didn't think I could make it far.

My ribs protested with every breath, each movement sending sharp waves of agony through my torso. I added possibly broken ribs to the growing list of injuries. I wasn't happy with the list so far.

Still slowly I tried to sit up – only for the nausea overtake me. My stomach lurched. I barely had time to roll on my side before I vomited.

The world spun violently.

Not good. Not good at all. I thought as the darkness swallowed me again.

Notes:

Cursive = thoughts