Save Me

I looked at my face in the mirror, my eyes full of dread, eyeliner smeared under my face. A huge bruise was evident, that covered my whole nose area, right above a spot of dried blood from my beating last night from dad.

“Ugh.” I said softly to myself. My body literally felt like it was going to fall to shreds, right there. Almost like a ripping feeling through my torso. I didn't want to leave my room, I felt a sense of safety in there, away from my abusive dad. Especially because the weekend began today. That always meant two days filled with excruciating pain, blood and tears.

I thought about it, which only made it worse. I looked at myself through tears, I felt uglier than ever. I was absolutely hideous, fat, and just so so ugly, nobody would ever want to be my friend, or be around me, I knew that for a fact.

Why couldn't I just run away from him and never come back? That was my only wish, to get away, and stay away. If someone knew, they would save me, possibly. Not all of the world is inhumane bastards like my dad, and people at school. Some were nice enough, or cared enough to try to help out, but not today, or any time soon, there was honestly no end to my pain.

“I guess it's nothing to dwell on.” I told myself.

I wiped away the few tears that had fallen, and pulled a hoodie over my head. I still felt the same sorry, the same feeling of having no ability to breathe, and being terrified. Terrified of what I would walk into. I knew once I left my room, I would be in a trap, basically, until he finally gave me the permission to go to sleep.

As soon as I walked out of the doorway, I felt his arm around my neck, tight. He used his other hand to grip me, so I couldn't be released or freed from his grip. I started sobbing as soon as he had me, because I knew up to an hour of pain could happen to me.

“Stop crying, you fucking bitch!” he growled at me.

I bit my lip, forgetting about the blood, as it trickled from my lip, down my chin, in a small little stream. He dragged me downstairs, and threw me down on the hard wood floor in the living room. He tackled me, first, and held me down, grabbing me by my hair, and slamming me harder against the wood, every time. He normally started with something like this, and it made my head bleed heaps.

After he was done, he would begin another procedure of torture. First, he grabbed me by my feet, and held me up, high, and watched as all the blood reached toward my forehead, and I mean all of it, it could take up to ten minutes sometimes, an by then, my head was pounding, and I wasn't able to speak, cry, yell, move or anything, my entire body was numb, besides my head. Then, without warning, or notification, he would just drop me, and let my head hit the floor, hard.

Basically, I would roll over, on my side, in pain, getting used to the fact that my organs had been rattled to the point where they were displaced, with occasional broken bones. He wouldn't pay much attention it, he would only put a few rags, bandaged together by cheap duck tape. My entire body was covered in bruises, scabs, burns, scratches, and everything.

“You fucking little piece of shit. How many fucking times do you need to be told? You are fucking nothing. You are scum, you are below that. You're an ugly fucking little whore, and I hope one day that my beatings fucking kill you. I want to fucking beat you bloody, until your limbs fall off, and then I want to take your dead body, and burn it flames, and flush your ashes down the toilet, that way I don't have to fucking worry about you, you fat ass slut!”

I looked at him through tears, as I fought to hold them back. It was impossible to, and I turned my face to the floor, burying my face in the small amount of carpet that there was. Under that was pure concrete. Dad stood above me, looking curiously down on my body. He stayed like that, until there was a knock at the door, he went to answer it. His friend, Mike, was there, which usually meant he would help beat me. Dad led his intoxicated friend into the door, where I was laying, crying my eyes out.

“Hold her down, will ya?” he asked Mike.

“Sure thing.” he replied. “You heard that, slut. Hold the fuck still!” he yelled.

I let out a muffled sob, but obeyed his commands, as he kicked my calves as hard as possible with his steel toe boots. I cringed, as I struggled to stay in one spot. Soon, he was holding me down, tight, as my dad walked away from his side, to my head.

“Ready?”

“1. 2. 3.” they counted out loud.

My dad stomped on my head, and I felt my face crush into the floor, and I heard my nose snap. He continued, pressing harder, each time, until he was finally done.

Mike jumped off of my legs, and my dad walked away. I rolled over in agony, letting out a small moan, as I struggled to lift my head. I tasted blood flow in the corners of my mouth. Dad picked me up in the midst of all of it, and held me as he did the beginning of that morning, and carried me to my room, where he threw me onto the hard wood floor.

He slammed the door in front of me, and I slowly sat up, and stared at the small pool of blood that had formed beneath my head, and how much blood was on my hoodie. I crossed my hands over my chest, bowing my head, and sobbing. At this point, I legitimately wanted to die, and I wanted to go to sleep, and never wake up again, I really just wanted all the pain to end.