*Owen’s POV*
*Afterschool*

There were the nights I would lay, awake in my bed, listening to the sound of fighting.

I turned to my side to see the digital clock on my bedside table, that read 2:00 am.

My mother would shout, my father would lay it on her, and then screaming would start. She cried, he seethed, and I pushed my face into the long toy snake my five-year-old body was wrapped around.

I imagined the several nights I would dream of the day my mother would leave, and me with her, to be free from the violence. Then one day she did leave, and myself? Well, I remained right where I was with nothing but the comfort of my stuffed snake.

When she left, she left for good … never to be seen breathing on the surface of this planet, again.

All that remained in this house was me, my stuffed snake and the slowly insane becoming man I called my father.

My relationship with my father grew more complicating as the years passed. It all started with a single black eye. As time carried on, black eyes turned into blue bruises on my arms and stomach.

To my fortunate, or not-so-fortunate luck, the bruises were conveniently on places I would easily conceal. I would always stay silent about them. I mean he is my father, after all, the only person in this world that I got left. My only family. The only one who still hasn’t left me in the dust. He must have a substantial reason right? I was sure I deserved, I mean, I really don’t know why but I just do. I guess.

One thing always led to another, and the new bruises would replace the old fading ones. And that’s just how my life went. The worst part is, I can’t even hate him because I just don’t.

Tonight, like the several other nights in this house, I pressed my cheek against the cool pillows. Pulling my blanket to the bottom of my chin, I turned on my phone to check for any pending messages. Of course, there weren’t any. I was never the most popular kid on the block. No one really noticed me. I really a lot of friends. So, me going on my phone, now, meant I was looking to check if Destiny had replied to any of messages.

But as usual, there was nothing there. I mean I'm not angry or anything. I get it, she's busy. She’s got a life. I kind of wish I did too.

I sighed, thinking about how attached I had become to her, despite not being allowed to, for reasons I really cant unfold, at the moment.

I began to imagine her on the night of Louis’s party.

Her hair had a soft brown tinted, like the bark of an oak tree, not dark but merely gentle in any light. Her long, straightened hair hung behind her back the whole night, waving back and forth as she moved around.

She has dressed a cute, two-piece pastel pink outfit. Her face, painted with the most minimum amount of makeup a high school girl could wear.

She smiled all night, but I don’t know if you would call it smiling, really. It was a like, a little smile, a smile with a twist to it, like a child determined not to weep.

She smiled until it hurt, she smiled until she couldn’t anymore …

Soon enough a violent eruption of noise filled up the airways of the whole house. Just as the doors slammed shut, I knew that the shouting match had just gotten the start, and it was time to walk on eggshells.

I jumped out of my bed a rushed to fix the itty bitty things around my room that might trigger him into a fit of anger.

“Owen!” I heard a screech from the living room, downstairs.

“Com-“ I started.

“Owen! OWEN!” He screamed again.

“Coming!” I shouted back, quickly, so he wouldn’t interrupt me. I rushed downstairs to see my father on the old rundown couch. He looked horrible, with that angry, disgusting look plastered on his face. “Yes?” I asked timidly.

“What the hell took you so fucking long? I called you like a hundred times.” My father spat at me, his eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, and hard. I’ve seen that expression, maybe every day of my life since the passing of my mother. So much that I was pretty sure that’s just how the face was.

“I said –“ I started, trying to explain that I had come as fast as possible, but he stopped me immediately.

“Shut up! Get me water.” He ordered me, leaning back on the couch as he took on his ordos shoes and socks, which dripped with oozing sweat.

I nodded and quickly scurried away to the kitchen. Hurriedly scrubbing hard at the already cleaned glass, I washed away all the soap before playing with the temperature of the water, praying I get the perfect temperature for him. Filling the glass to the top, leaving about centimetre empty from the rim of the glass, I carefully drained any excess water dripping from it and walked it over to my father.

Handing him the glass, I unconsciously breathed in the smoke he had been smoking, right in my face. Struggling not to cough out, I held it in and allowed the toxic air to fill my lungs.

He hadn’t had the glass of water in his hand for more than five seconds before he erupted in a fit of screams. “What the fuck is this?! Did you even wash this? What are you trying to give me, some dirty ass glass?”

“I-“ I tried to intruded, explaining that I had cleaned it carefully, but it was no use he continued his anger burst.

“You little bitch! And this glass of water is too damn cold! You know I have a cold, so why would you go and do this?! You stupid, idiot. You don’t know how to do anything. You’ll end up like a deadbeat like your mother! You-” His last words triggered my beyond words, unable to hold in the angry I erupted, as well.

“Shut up! My mother is not a deadbeat!” I shouted out, without thinking.

“What did you say, boy?” He screamed out, standing up. Immediately, I knew I was toast. I should’ve mouth shut. I watched his narrowed eyes burn in the fires of fury and hatred, as he weighs the pros and cons of the various and creative means available to him for exacting punishment. “I said … what the fuck did you say to me!” he shouts again, smashing the glass of water against the wall.

Before my brain could register the sound as breaking glass, my eyes went shut tight, as a million new knives fell softly over my exposed skin. I freeze, all but my heart remaining statue-like on the carpeted living room floor. When finally, I allowed my eyelids to flutter open all I could see was the angry, red face man breathing fire out of his nostrils.

Without a word of caution, his tight fist collided with my face. Crashing to the ground, he didn’t give me a moment to catch my breath before he grabbed my shoulders and threw me against the wall. The back of my head crashing into the solid hard wall.

“Who the hell do you think you are for talking to me like that? You disgusting little pig!” he shouted at me, looking down at my miserable self on the ground.

Grabbing my hair, I whimpered at the pain, as he pulls me on to my feet. He chained his hands around my neck, tightly as I cried for air. “What the fuck did I tell you? Your mother is a deadbeat, a fucking cunt-ass bitch. And you are just like her, maybe even worse! Do you understand?!” He screamed into my face, his smoked-up breath clogging up my nostrils are the air nearly stopped passing through my throat. “Repeat it, you dumb asshole! Repeat it!”

He allowed a little passage of air through my throat as I recited his words in a broken tone. “I am a deadbeat, cunt-ass bitch.” I choked out, suffocating at the grip of his hand.

“What else!!” He shouted, tightening his grip.

“And so is my mother.” I cried out, begging for air. Immediately he let go out his grip, and I crashed to the ground, choking and gasping for oxygen.

He finished his torture session, by jabbing his foot against my rib, with great force. “Get. Out. Of mine. Face!” He spat at me, before plopping into his seat.

Slowly, I clutched my stomach and dragged my aching body up the stairwell and into my bedroom. Shutting my bedroom door, quietly, as to not let my father hear, I fell to my feet on the cold, hard ground as the tears streamed down my face.

Just now I noticed all the broken glass bits that managed to pierce into my skin. Blood dripping from my arms and legs, my back and head throbbing with pain. I gently touched my eye, wincing at the pain. ‘Another black eye.’ I assumed.

Living like this is like hell, I really couldn’t take it anymore. Every day spent, every minute locked away, every tear I let out, bring a just a little closer to my ultimate death. He will be the death of me. I hate him so much. I just want to get out. I cant do anymore. I cant … I cant … but I have to. I have to. I don’t know, but if I give up, then he would win- or I would lose.

I wasn’t going to give up.

I’m thinking of suicide.

I’m not going to run away, at least not from this town.

It seemed like the only thing keeping me going right now was Destiny and her entire existence in my life. Everything I do, think or feel is now all for her. I need to keep her safe, so I can keep myself safe. She is now my life. She’s all I’ve got. And all I’ve ever wanted.

The perfect little sister.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Not thinking to clean myself off, I grabbed a bunch of my things and threw them into a duffle bag. Slipping out my phone, I messaged Destiny.

Owen: Hey. Can I stay at your place?

Destiny: You’re father, again?

Owen: Yeah.

Destiny: Come over. I’m feeling lonely anyway. Next time, don’t ask. Just come. You’re always welcome.

Owen: Thanks

Destiny: (:

I cleaned up my room: straightened my bed, fixed up my closet, stacked up my books neatly.

I finished packing my duffle bag. Turning off the lights, I cracked open the window and threw my duffle bag down.

I jumped out of my window, and on to the ladders, I had placed beneath my window. I shut the window close and made my way to Destiny’s.

This has become some sort of a weekly tradition for me. I hated staying at home – to be honest, I really wouldn’t call it home anymore.

Destiny was my home, and I can’t lose her, but she can never know that. So, this will just be a little secret between you and me. Okay?

Notes

To Whom It May Concern,

Hello guys, I just wanted to address something. I understand as pointed out in the comments, my Chapter 25 – Abuse, was not actually my work, but of, of another author’s.

This was an act of plagiarism, and I’m genuinely sorry. Even though I wish I could say that this was not my fault, but I really can’t, see I knew at the time that what I was doing was wrong, but for some reason I went ahead and did it. So, I honestly wanted to apologise for copying the work of @brianna.smith. It was wrong of me to use your work without permission and attribution. Your efforts deserve the recognition that I denied it. I understand that my actions have really hurt you, and I am deeply sorry for that pain.

I would also like to apologise to my readers that I lied to and misled, telling them that the work I had created was my own when I knew it wasn’t. You trusted me and expected honesty from me, and I have let you down. I am very sorry.

I understand there will be consequences for my actions and I accept them entirely. And I hope with time and effort I can move past these offences to regain the trust of both my readers and @brianna.smith. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again. And I can verify that everything else on my page is 100% my work unless otherwise stated.

Respectfully,
@thesixthsense._