Fallen Identity

hi.
I should probably introduce myself. My name is Carter Andrews. I’m 15 years of age and live in a small town near Chicago called Forest View, Illinois. My life isn’t that special, at least, I never thought it was special before. Now, I’m not so sure. Actually, I’m not sure about anything anymore.
I live with my adoptive father. His name is Mr. Berings and I despise him. He’s probably the only man that I have come to truly hate. I’d like to think I’m a nice person but I wouldn’t know since I don’t socialize with anyone. People ignore me and I ignore them right back. It’s easier that way, to ignore everyone. I don’t have to confide my secrets to anyone and they don’t have to confide back. I’m not the emotional type of girl. I do my best to stay strong, even in my current living condition. I stick through the pain and try not to let it crack me.
Mr. Berings was okay at first, I guess. He gave me my space and never asked me anything too personal. He seemed like a decent guy. Note the word: seemed. He then starting making me do household chores like a housewife. I made sure to do them because he was nice enough to buy me almost anything I wanted. He almost seemed like a real family until he started getting abusive. At first it was only when he was drunk that he would sexually abuse me. I tried to struggle and tell the cops and teachers at my school but they all informed me the same thing, "Mr. Berings is a wonderful asset to the community." My guess is he donated a lot of money. He was pretty wealthy and went to a lot of charity events.
Now, he physically hurts me when I don't get any of the chores done and sexually abuses me even more often then before. I feel like a slave and feel more like an outcast. I constantly wonder if this is my repayment for him adopting me but then I hear those stories on the TV about women who've been raped and how it's drastically changed their lives, and not in a positive way either. I always feel like I might just snap one day but then I see a look in his eyes sometimes, like he would actually kill me and that’s what haunts me every night and every day.
Despite everything, I still don't want to die. I've thought of suicide before and it's never intrigued me. I can't see how people could actually go through with killing themselves. Or those people who cause pain to themselves to supposedly 'wipe away the emotional pain'. I could never see myself taking a gun to the head or a knife to the heart. I can't see myself doing that to anyone else either. How can people hurt and murder people? I guess Mr. Berings can.
I wonder about my family. The people at the adoption agency had said my parents were murdered when I was only four so I don't remember much about them. It seems murder likes to follow me around. Sometimes I get flashbacks of them or dreams but that's all. They wouldn't give me anymore information but I don't want anymore anyway. I don't want to know because I don't want to be filled with all this rage and revenge to go out and get the people who did this. Like I said before, I can’t see myself hurting anybody.
I doze off during my history teacher’s lecture once again for about the umpteenth time this week. I don’t even remember his name; Mr. Far-something. He’s a pretty nice teacher, seeing as how he doesn’t make a big deal out of my sleeping habits, but just casually walks by and taps me on the shoulder, alerting me that I had slipped unconscious, once again, in his class. I felt another tap on the shoulder coming from behind me and I cautiously turned around to face a boy my age. I thought he was actually going to talk to me until he held up a note and asked me to pass it to some girl. At least I can say that I’m not invisible, just inconsequential. Mr. Far-something wrote today’s assignment on the board which I ignored. I wouldn’t be able to finish it anyway.
Mr. Far-something called me to talk to him once the bell rang. I dragged myself over to his desk, which sat snuggly in the back of the room. Seeing him more in his relaxed state instead of in teacher mode, I saw how some of the giggly girls found him attractive, but speaking with him now, I ignored that meaningless thought.
“Ms. Andrews,” he addressed me, “Is there anything going on at home that keeps making you want to sleep every single day in my class?”
I, of course, had already thought up an excuse to these kinds of questions. No one wanted to be believe my ‘outrageous accusations’ so I had to lie a lot to explain some of my abnormal behavior. Frankly, I was surprised Mr. Far-something was only asking me about this now instead of a month ago.
“Insomnia,” I replied nonchalantly, like that one word was supposed to explain everything.
Mr. Far-something nodded his head and grabbed a sticky-note and a pen and wrote down a name and phone number.
“This is a therapist that I think could help you with your sleeping problems,” he said and handed me the slip of paper.
“Thanks,” I replied emotionlessly, hoping he’d let me leave now before I got in trouble for being late ‘home’. I awkwardly turned around and grabbed my crappy backpack off the ground and made my way to the door, crumpling the stinky-note and throwing it in the trashcan on my way out, not caring if Mr. Far-something saw me do it. Now, I wish I took his kind intention more to heart, since that was the last time I ever saw him.

I hesitantly creaked open the front door, poking my head inside to see if the coast was clear. All I heard was a deathly silence. I guess he’s not home, I thought to myself.
I bolted up the stairs to my room and found the single sheet of paper which held my chores list. My eyes scanned the list, even though I knew every thing I had to do by heart. I always double-checked. I would start downstairs and work my way up, knowing he would investigate downstairs first. Mr. Berings was kind of OCD about certain things and if one little thing was out of place, it’d just be another slap in the face. If I were one of those weird girls who like to point out obvious, random things then I’d probably say, “Ooh, that rhymed,” but I’m not like that, so I don’t say anything at all.
I start with dusting first, so then I can easily sweep or mop up all the excess dust that falls to the floor.
I was just starting to do the dishes, when I heard the front door slam. That was never a good sign. Either he was drunk or pissed off. Both were equally bad. Both ended with about 40 more bruises.
“Carter!” I hear his unslurred voice scream for me. Great, he was pissed off. Something probably went wrong at work and now he came home to take out all his anger on me.
I ran toward the foyer, not wanting to keep the slave-driver waiting any longer than he possibly had to.
“Yes?” I asked.
“How come I got some call from your principal telling me you’re failing?” he demanded. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. I only knew too well what he used those fists for.
“I-.”
“No daughter of mine is going to be a failure!” I cringed at the word daughter. I was anything but a daughter to him.
I looked down at the floor, not saying anything for fear I would talk back and then get punished for it. I got punished for everything.
“You look at me when I am speaking to you,” he said coldly, using his meaty fingers to force me to look at his disturbing eyes and despicable face.
“Now answer me: why are you failing?” he pronounced each word slowly with a menacing sneer that sent unpleasant shivers down my spine.
“Because I don’t have time.”
Slap!
“I give you plenty of time,” he said, “so stop lying.”
“Plenty of time to do your work.” I didn’t want to be specific about the ‘work’ I had to do. Most of it was too awful.
Slap!
“Lie one more time and see what happens,” he threatened. I held my tongue and tried my hardest to fight the urge to fight back. I would lose anyway. I always lost it seems. I know I may sound so pessimistic and down on myself but I’m only stating the truth. The pure and simple and most of the times, depressing truth.
“That’s what I thought,” he smirked at my helpless expression. He let go of my face abruptly, causing me to stagger back a couple steps. His beady eyes scanned the room finally and I instantly became worried. His eyes caught sight of my list of chores that I had copies of so that I could cross out what I had already done. Only about three of the tasks were crossed off.
Mr. Berings crumpled the paper in his fist and I could practically see the steam of anger rising off him like he was a cartoon character from the 90s. He whirled around stomped over to me. I all but fell to the ground at his sudden proximity. This time, he punched me in the gut, sending me to the floor before kicking me in the same place, almost breaking my fingers that were now clutching at my stomach. I opened my eyes to see a small trickle of blood make its way out of my mouth onto the newly washed floor.
“This all better be clean before I come back,” he snarled before slamming the door on his way out. My guess is, he was going to get a drink or two; or ten.
I sat motionlessly on the cold tiled ground for about ten minutes before the pain in my stomach lowered to just an annoying feeling. I stood up, stumbling a little bit before balancing myself. I rushed up the stairs as best as I could and dumped my backpack of all its contents. I feverishly stuffed ratty clothes and other necessities into the bag and by the time I was done with that, the pain in my stomach had subsided. With my time here, my body had become more pain resilient.
I rushed out the door without a second thought and ran. I ran until my lungs caved in and slowed to a walk, not really sure of where I was going.
It had felt like I was walking for hours and I probably had been since it was the dead of night out. I was in the more city-like part of the town I noticed. I looked up and saw a sign that said: Train to Chicago Union Station.
Chicago. That’s where I’ll go. I would be able to hide in the crowds of people and start over with a whole new life. Sure, I’d have to wait till I was 18 before being able to get an actual job and use my real name, but at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain and abuse any longer.
I made my way over to the train station and went up to one of those ticket machines and was relieved when I realized that I had stuffed a huge wad of cash in my back and was easily able to buy a one way ticket to Chicago. I deposited my ticket into the turnstile machine and was able to walk through and grab my ticket on the other side.
I nervously waited for my train to come but when I saw that there were only a couple other people waiting with me, I had relaxed some and sat down for a moment. I stared at my ticket in awe. This was the ticket to my freedom of captivity. I was so lost in the moment, I almost kissed the ticket when I heard the loud whoosh and screech sounds of the train coming down the tunnel. I was relieved when I saw barely any people on board the train and walked on with determination. I sat down in an empty row and set my bag next to me.
I sat forward and felt my long, dirty blonde hair fall into my face and it gave me an idea. I opened my bag and looked around until I found it. I grabbed my whole bag and made my way into the bathroom. I stared at my bruised complexion and ratty hair. I looked horrible.
I held up the scissor and a bundle of my hair and snip! chopped off over half of it. I gazed at the short piece of hair for just a second before setting off to work on cutting the rest of my hair until it was all short and messed up. Just like how most guys are wearing their hair nowadays. I stared at my wardrobe and was thankful that I never wore anything too girly but just plain sweats and oversized t-shirts. I also noticed I had stuffed a plain black cap into my bag and decided to stack it onto my head to complete my transformed look.
Looking into the mirror, all I saw was a strange guy that seemed to dress weird, not the weak girl who leads a pathetic life. I walked out of the bathroom after courteously cleaning up all of my cut hair from the floor. It would be horrible to walk into a bathroom and see clumps of blonde hair all over the floor.
I looked around to see if anyone noticed the change in my look and was relieved to see that only one woman seemed to look at me curiously but then went back to her book a moment later.
This just might work.