I Need Someone Like You

Scarlet Kamik is not an average girl. She grew up in a bad neighborhood. Her mother has passed by a shooting on her block while her mom took her to the park. After that, everything has changed. her father started to blame Scarlet for everything. Her mothers passing, her father (Rob) losing his job, and loosing almost everything in the house in a stove fire that her father caused. Her father has forced her to steal food and alcohol from stores. Her father abuses her every day. She cant escape. Or can she? Who would she meet if she did? How would she fend for herself? Read and Find out!


15. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Scarlet's P.O.V

      I entered my room not forgetting to quietly close the door behind me. I once again was looking at the shopping bags I saw previously hours ago. I sighed and started to look through the bags from various places. He must of been shopping for hours on end. 

     Guilt suddenly washed over me. He must of spent a fortune for all these beautiful clothes, I thought as I browsed through the bags.

     I finally found a pair of long pajama pants and long sleeved shirt as I refuse to show my damaged skin. I stripped down from my old and useless clothes only to be standing in a bra and undies. I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw staring back at me a girl. She was broken. Really broken. Everyone she cared about and loved has turned their back on her. They gave up on a girl who desperately needed someone to help her through the ups and downs of life. From the moment this girl was born she had to trust her parents. She had no choice. She needed them to be her guide, to navigate through the difficult, confusing and vulnerable journey to becoming a person. They have done none of those things. No one has. He was her father, and he took a little girls trust and smashed it into pieces on a 18 year long mission. Her father meant nothing to this girl anymore. This girl was me. I had to step into reality because this is life. 

     I kept a tight grip on the clothes as it was intertwined between my fragile fingers. I crept my gaze to my waist. I brushed my fingers from my free hand over my abdomen. I took in a sharp breath and flinched away from my own painful touch. For others it would be nothing more than a playful tickle. For me it was unbearable torture eating me from the inside out. I attempted again as I succeeded to place my hand over my stomach. Now, it was throbbing with pain. I felt a steady beat and all my muscles clenched at my own touch.

     I was far from beauty. Very far. My waist was far undernourished. Dark circles lingered under my eyes. Ribs in clear view for anyone to see. Hair tangled and knotted. I couldn't see how I could ever live a happy life with the memories torturing my mind as if I was part of some sick game. 

    I removed my hand for it to freely drop to my side in defeat to hold there any longer. I took a glance at the clock. The constant ticking driving me insane. Every tick and every tock only symbolizes the seconds of my life being carelessly taking away from me. Every tock and tick is one more second closer to the never ending darkness everyone faces called death. I feel like I am standing in a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even bothers to look up. But something inside of me is telling me there is still hope. There is still faith for even the most damaged. But that something is so small that not even myself can convince the poor excuse of a person I am that I have a chance. It was now 1:02 in the morning. The clock, mocking my existence by ticking and tocking for its purpose was to tear at my mind to desperately ruin whatever is left of me. 

     Changing my train of thought, I hummed a quiet tune my mother used to sing to me when I was young, to drown the consistent ticking and tocking of the agonizing clock while I started to dress myself in the fuzzy and warm pajamas. One foot and one arm at a time. I desperately longed to just curl into bed to drain away the hurtful words, the constant memories, the tormenting thoughts, the bitter details of my life and everyone in it. 

     I dug for a hair brush and began to fix my bunched, snagged and twisted mane. Once over, I took my hands and brought my hair into one hand and took a previously found hair tie from my pitiful wrist to securely tie my hair into a neat ponytail. Taking once last glace at the unsatisfying mirror, I walked over to the neatly made bed. I skimmed my hand over the covers feeling the clearly new duvet hugging the mattress. No rips, wrinkles, dirt, tangle, stain, or any sigh of permanent or temporary imperfection. Made for royalty. Someone like me is much to differ.

     I pulled the covers back and moved into the bed to lay my weak and broken body into. I got comfortable as much as I possibly could and sighed. I hadn't sighed because I was contempt. But because I was exhausted. Exhausted of humiliation, pain, loneliness, and desperation. I reached and switched the lamp off only inches from were I lay. I fell into a distant slumber with anguishing thoughts only to release myself from suffering. 

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