Story of My Life

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  • Published: 24 Nov 2013
  • Updated: 24 Nov 2013
  • Status: Complete
This life is evil and no-one knows this better than I. This is my story. Th story of my beginning and my end. Don't judge me too harshly.


2. In the Begnning

When I was six my mother ran away.  She ran away from my father, from her life, from me.  I think that's what always hurt the most; that she would run from the terrible life she had forged for herself and yet curse me to the same hell she had fled.  I could never hate her for it though because I would have run too if I could.  


My father didn't appear to the rest of the community as a cruel man but at home, he was different.  Especially when he had a drink in his hand.  To the rest of our small town, he was a victim.  A single parent bearing the weight of caring for a child, of working hard to pay his bills and of still finding time for himself.  He was pitied and most of the women baked and helped to wash our clothes.


I was nine when he first touched me.  He explained to me that he was lonely and that he could no longer afford the hussies in town because I needed a school uniform.  It was then when we forged a deal; I would please him and he would treat me well.  If I wanted new books, he would be allowed touch me; if I wanted to go out with my friends, I would have to touch him; and so on.  


It wasn't until I was thirteen that I really understood what I was doing.  By then, my breasts had begun to develop and I had been granted the burdens of womanhood.  I had also taken on a greater role in the household too.  It was my job to wash the clothes, get the weekly shopping and cook dinner.  


My father begun to get bored of me which stung worse than anything.  I felt rejected and unloved.  Sometimes I would simply make up something I needed just so I could be close to him again.  Finally he stopped paying attention to me altogether and when I tried to get close to him, he would shove me away.  My father no longer wanted me, just as my mother ran away when she no longer wanted me too.  


So when the boy in the class above me, Aiden Ferrel, asked me around the back of the school, I agreed.  I longed to b touched like my father used to touch me.  I wanted to feel loved again, to feel cared for and most of all, to feel wanted.  


I remember how it felt, his hands grabbing and squeezing my budding breasts.  I was fourteen, or maybe fifteen, at the time but most of the boys said I looked much older.  He had stolen a bottle of whiskey that burned my throat the first couple of times I had drank it but eventually it had numbed my body completely.  


I hadn't meant to let him go as far he did but I was too drunk to stop him.  I was so ashamed that I didn't go home that night.  I hid in the shed at the back of the school and cried for hours.  I told myself that I deserved to be cold, that I deserved to be hungry, that I deserved to feel the ache I had in the pit of my stomach.  


When I got home the next day, my father hit me for the first time.  He saw it on my face the minute I got in the door.  He knew and he beat me within an inch of my life for it.  The next day while I licked my wounds like a kicked dog, my father went to my school and un-enrolled me.  

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