"Mama!" I scream, jolting awake in my bed in a panic. God- I'm sweating. Really sweating. I throw my duvet off of me, tossing my legs off of to the side of the bed and pulling myself up. I drag myself to the bathroom, flicking on the light before looking into the mirror. I try to calm my breathing but I am anything but calm- that, that nightmare- it felt so real. I turn the faucet on in the sink and immediately dip my head down, my hands traveling into the flowing water, rapidly splashing my face. It was just a dream. It was just a dream. I repeat the mantra several times in my head, trying to truly encourage myself that it really was just a dream, but I'm lying. That was no dream- that was a nightmare- a memory that I had hoped to escape for the rest of my life but with my parents having the weekend off, I am forced back into a dark world of fear and discouragement and low self-esteem.
They call it Atelophobia- the fear of imperfection or the fear of never being good enough. It's true, I have Atelophobia. I was diagnosed when I was about seven, soon after all of this had began.
"Daddy? Daddy, what are you doing?" I question the man that I call my father as he approaches me, an evil look in his eyes.
"Daddy just wants to have some fun with his darling little girl," he smirks. My eyes are wide with fear- my lips parted slightly- and I can literally feel the ice running through my body at his words.
This man is not my father; he's some demon disguised as him. With the look on his face and in his eyes, this feels like it's going to be anything but fun. "D-Daddy," I stutter out.
"Awe, baby, don't be scared. Daddy just wants to play a game." There's that smirk again. Does it ever leave his face? No. Please, don't agree to this Taylor. Don't. He's my daddy- how can I just refuse his demands?
"Y-you're scaring m-me, Daddy." I turn my head away from him, holding my hands up in front of my chest. No, please no.
"Awe," he coos, reaching his hand down to my chin and lifting my face to meet his. "Don't be scared- lots of daddies play this game with their little girls, it's normal." He looks into my eyes, searching for some sign of relief, but I give none. I nod slowly, swallowing the lump in my throat that is continuously building, anticipating his next actions. This next action, I am sure that I am not looking forward to. Daddy licks his bottom lip and moves his hand down from my chin, skimming it down my side. His hand reaches the hem of my pants and he slips two fingers into the top of my jeans, holding onto the waistband. "You're such a beautiful girl- just like your mother." He leans down to kiss my neck and I screw my eyes shut, small tears escaping the corners.
That bastard, that sick, sick bastard- that is not what daddies do; that's what molesters and pedophiles do. Even when I was seven, I knew it wasn't normal. I had always gone to school and was scared to be around everyone else- to be touched- and bruises covered my body. My teachers questioned me about them and I just would look away, ashamed of the fact that I allowed it to happen. Now, thinking back on it, I should've told him to fuck off when I had the chance, but that probably would've made things worse. I cringe at the thought. Things have gotten worse since then. I peel my shirt up and stare into the mirror at my reflection- one single bruise that covers the entire right side of my torso and some way onto my abdomen.
I walk out of the bathroom and back into my room. I pick up my phone and check the time- 6:21am. I groan and walk back into the bathroom, turning on the water for a shower. I peel my clothes off and, before stepping in, check the water temperature. It's scolding hot so I adjust it to a more tolerable temperature and step the underneath- the hot water hitting against my chest, cascading down and around my body. I close my eyes and marvel in the perfection and relaxation. Hmmm.. I haven't felt so relaxed in such a long time, considering the circumstances I'm under. Immediately, paranoia kicks in and my eyes fly open, searching around the occupied bathroom and vacant bedroom. Seeing that I'm still alone, I relax once more and let the water relieve me of all of my tension before I decide to wash my hair and body.
I reach down and turn off the shower and, stepping out, I wrap a towel around my body and secure it underneath my right arm. I walk back into my room and into my walk-in closet. I pull out a set of black lace undergarments, a loose black batwing top, a white tank top, and a pair of aquamarine skinny jeans. I pull on all of my clothes, sliding the batwing top to the right so that it hangs off of my shoulder and reveals my tank top. I walk back into the bathroom and blow dry my hair before throwing it up into a loose ponytail. I reach for my eyeliner and apply a thin line before applying my lip balm. I rub my lips together and scruff my hair to add some kind of volume to it. I groan and give up, leaving my bathroom, and I grab my backpack from my bedroom floor and sling it over my shoulder.
School is the same every day- boring as hell. I walk into my final class of the day and take my seat at the back of the room. No one else really sits back here but I love it. I don't have to worry about the sidebar conversations as I try to concentrate on the work that's been giving me hell all school year. I don't have to worry about being interrupted when I'm working on the most important part of the project or whatever. I don't have to worry about-
I'm pulled from my reverie at the sound of the door opening. Looking up, I see the boy that I had passed earlier in the hallway. He's wearing a pair of black skinny jeans- ripped at the knees- a white t- shirt, and a plaid shirt, unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up over his biceps. His is wavy brown and is pushed up on top of his head. I refuse to accept that I find him attractive. Besides, I really shouldn't be getting involved with anyone that will distract me from my school work. And this boy, whatever his name is, is going to end up doing that. I hear Ms. Samuels suggest for him to take a seat next to me, and I know I'm fucked. I sigh and groan, huffing my hair out of my face. Why me?
Out of my peripheral, I see him take a seat next to me and glance over at me. "Hi," he says, ever-so-polite. Oh gee- I scoff- what a gentleman. I roll my eyes. And so it begins....
"Hi," I say bluntly.
"I'm Harry," he smiles. Why is he smiling? Stop fucking smiling.
"Cool." Honestly, my replies could not be more short and impassive even if I tried really hard. I must sound like a complete and total asshole right now, but I don't care.
"Don't you have a name?" he nudges.
I groan. "Trouble." I continue scribbling little drawings on my paper, trying to recreate some drawing by Alex Pardee. I have a slight obsession with his creations. They literally make me feel alive.
"I like trouble," I feel the boy whisper onto my skin.
"What the hell, man? Ever heard of personal space?" I shout at him.
"Lennox!" Ms. Samuels shouts. My head snaps to the direction of the loud voice. "My office- now!"
"Thanks a lot, asshole," I mumble.
"See ya later, Lennox," he smirks.
I roll my eyes and walk into Ms. Samuels' office. How fucking dare he? He doesn't even know me? I could be some fucking homicidal killer, and yet he gets in my personal space- which I fucking have issues with because of my god damn parents- and does that shit! Ugh. This is why I fucking hate people! No god damn consideration for others! Who the hell does he think he is anyway? I mean, seriously. You can't just fucking waltz into a class room and whisper against people's skin- it's harassment! And who the hell is he to say that he likes trouble? He probably doesn't even know what real trouble is. He's probably one of those damn guys who've always wanted to experience the thrill- the rush- of living on the edge. Well, let me tell you something, honey- it's not all fun and games. It's-
My thoughts are interrupted at the sound of the door opening and I watch with anxiety as Ms. Samuels steps into the room.