Dessy-Chapter 1: Bloody Jeans Cursing under my breath I slowly limped up the stairs, careful not to wake my little brother and sister up. Who were twins. 1 am in the morning. I should've been in bed 4 hours ago. Instead I was fighting.. Yelling.. Screaming.. Why do these things always happen to me in particular? I’ve wanted to know the answer to that question for years. Of course, who wouldn’t. Right, I’m Desdemona. Just call me Dessy. Your average 18 year old girl who apparently is hated by my own father, aunt, grandpa, and little cousin Charlotte! But… just call me Dessy. I live in Sarasota, Florida. The only people nice enough to me here are my twin siblings (Vanessa and Wayne) and mother. Ugh… I thought as I reached the top step. What did he do to me this time? My father (Lance) gets drunk. A lot. And smokes. A lot. He also goes gambling. A lot. It gets so annoying. I look behind me and on the light grey carpet there’s a trail of blood from where I walked up the steps. Either I’m bleeding from

the leg or the back. Both feel like hell. Like I was saying, my dad isn’t healthy. Just 2 hours ago I came home from a skatepark to find my dad in the kitchen, leaning over the sink. He was gonna puke and I knew what had happened. I could see feet running up the stairs and I knew my Aunt Dorla was going to scream at my mother for leaving the alcohol out where my dad could get to it. My mom (Amelia) would run downstairs, check on my dad, then run into the bathroom to get something like aspirin or whatever. She would run back to my dad holding whatever she thought he needed and he would whack it away and throw up. Then he would stop, stand there, wipe his mouth, and turn his head to me. Then he would start to widen his eyes, he would growl, and charge at me. But not without forgetting the ‘punishing knife’. That’s exactly what happened. I didn’t even move. Why would I if he’s just gonna knock over more things, hurt more people, and hurt me harder. Once in my left thigh. Once beside my right shoulder

Once in my right shoulder. Was it painful? Of course. Did it faze me? Nope. I was used to it. Have been for 5 years now. Just as my father hit my thigh I heard a scream coming from the stairs and saw my aunt gasping for breath. She had only moved in 3 weeks ago. She didn’t know the full potential he could reach. After the hit in my shoulder I scooted out of the way. My mother and aunt went over to him. Mom grabbed his knife. Dorla held him steady so he could calm down. No one gave a crap about me after I scooted away. My mom shot me glances, silently asking me if I needed help. I shook my head. Who needs help when you can handle it on your own? So that brings me to now. Gasping for breath I start to shiver. It’s in the middle of June, why would it be cold? I was losing too much blood. I didn’t want to see the damage done, so I just crept into my room, locked the door, and went into my own little private bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror, eyes closed. I then opened them and looked down at my

shoulder, which was bleeding but not heavily. Shoulder, check. Then I looked into the mirror to get a good look at my chest, which was bleeding much more than my shoulder but not enough to get so cold from. Chest check. Then I looked at my leg that was gushing hot sticky blood onto the clean marble floor. Groaning, I got aspirin for my head (which was pounding), then got a bunch of wipes and paper towels for my leg. There were spare bandages in the pantry so I got those out too. Wrapping the bandages on my shoulder and chest I took in a breath and let it out. Looking back down at my leg (that had paper towels stuck to it) I rolled my eyes and started bandaging that up too. I looked back up into the mirror and stared at my face, which had a bit of dried blood on it. My long, black, braided hair had been messed up when I tried getting up the stairs. I stared at my own bright blue eyes that I got from my father. I wish I had my mother’s green eyes instead. Freckles layered my face, with round black glasses.

They kinda remind me of Harry Potter. My black band shirt (Beatles shirt to be exact) was tied up on the bottom with a spare hair tie, paired with dirty bootcut jeans. Course, the jeans are now ripped and bloody. Eh, I have other pairs. I open the bathroom door and walk out. I face plant onto my bed, and turn around so that I’m facing the ceiling. My room is all black, red, and white. Even though my aunt hates it. My mother helped me hang those posters on my wall. The band posters, the ones of skulls. There’s a few devils. Normal things like that. I continue to stare at the ceiling. Sifting through memories. Recent and old. Real and fake. They keep replaying over and over until I just shut my brain down. It’s something I learned through a meditation class two years ago. When my brain gets too full- poof. They’re gone. Replaced with emptiness and a black escape. The second time I tried it I got stuck. I couldn’t get out. But now it’s as easy as pie.

I snap out of it and sit up. I blink a few times then look at my arms. They are covered in bruises and scars and anything else that is the result of a beating. My grandpa would use a bat and whack me in the arms and head over and over in a way to.. Discipline I guess? My father is the reason for those scars. You probably know how those happened by now. Closing my eyes, visions of my grandpa and father hurting me crash down in waves. I’m gonna lose it. I’m not gonna survive it. I’m drowning, gasping for breath. I can’t see where I’m going. I’m lost. I’m gone. I- I go back to that black abyss… my escape. I’m fine. For now.

yep. thats a LOOOOOT of chats. damn. XD i hope its gooood?

awwww... thank you!! =3

XD i know. its a lot. but thank you!!