Lock and Chain

(Explicit content- 16+) What do you long for? A beautiful house? An expensive car? Eternal happiness? Acceptance? All through her life, Kadence Emery has been bullied, rejected and chained up by her father. Other girls long for a beautiful body, a hot boyfriend, all the riches in the world. Kadence only longs for acceptance and a life that she is happy to live.


6. Chapter Five


"Well, you want to know something? Living in this house is just bullshit!" I screamed. It was one of the rare times that I felt brave enough to stand up for myself against my father.

"If you find it so crap here then get out, you ungrateful little fuck!"

"You can't do that. I'm not eighteen yet."

"The sooner you turn eighteen, the better. Then I can kick you out all I like."

"And I'll be more than glad to leave this hell hole!"

My father glared at me before marching over to me. He grabbed my jaw and spit flew from his mouth with every word as he snarled in my face. "You talk to me like that again and you will leave this fucking house before you turn eighteen."

"Talk to you like what?" I said, taunting him and yanking my jaw back. I knew I was treading dangerous waters, but for once in my life, I would stand up against him.

"All this swearing. I am your father, not a piece of shit that you found on the streets."

"Sometimes I wish you weren't my fucking father." I whispered dangerously.

There was a moment where my father stared at me in a stunned silence. I wished hopelessly that all he would do would be to chuck me in the basement, or confiscate my monthly allowance (I know that sounds nice, but it's only £10 and I have to buy everything I need, like clothes and wash stuff). However, the stunned expression was gone within a second and was replaced with a look so evil, I could mistake him for Voldemort, or the devil.

"Come with me," he said, a surprising amount of calm in his voice.

"No." I replied firmly. He didn't own me. But he could force me to do something.

He grabbed me by the collar of my t-shirt, creating yet another rip in it. He dragged me up the stairs, my body bouncing off each step.

My father threw the bathroom door open so forcefully that it broke off its hinges. He stood still for a moment, just staring at the broken door, before he pulled the whole thing off and threw it across the landing. The door hit the opposite wall and splintered into several pieces. I blinked at the pieces of the door and tried to struggle out his grip while he was distracted. Obviously, this was to no avail and he only gripped tighter, scratching my neck at the same time.

When the way to the bathroom was clear, he picked me up and chucked me in the bathtub. I barely managed to wrap my hands around my head so I didn't get knocked out from banging my head on the taps. My father looked down at me curled up in the bathtub before picking something up off the windowsill. I didn't see what he had in his hand before he bent close to my face and gripped my jaw again.

"Now, I want to teach you what happens when I disagree with what you are saying to me. Based on what just happened, I have a feeling that this is going to happen quite frequently."

He removed his hand from behind his back and showed me what was in his hand: a bar of soap.


Have you ever had someone say to you "if you use language like that again, I'll wash your mouth out with a bar of soap"? Now, I wonder, have you ever had it actually happen to you? My father decided that night that I needed to have the disagreeable language "washed" out of my mouth. After that, I was sick all over the bathroom and he locked me in there for three days. He told me he didn't want to see my sick and if I didn't like it either, then I should learn to treat him properly. This was not the first time that it happened.



I pushed the front door open, trying to be as quiet as possible. I glanced at the blue car on the driveway. It was a fairly beat-up Mercedes, dark blue in colour and with black cloth seats. My father had bought it after the car accident that killed my mother. Our old car had been destroyed so he bought this one. I had only been in it three times since he'd got it: once when he took me back from the hospital and twice when he took me there and back again for a check-up at the hospital.

I glanced round the hallway before shutting the door behind me. I stood as still as a statue, trying to listen for any sounds that indicated that my father was home. I heard nothing. My bag slipped off my shoulder, but I managed to catch it centimetres before it hit the ground. I tugged it back over my shoulder and took it upstairs to my room.

My room was minimal. As you would expect with a parent like mine. The walls were a dirty cream colour, sort of matching the murky grey carpet. I had no lamp shade because it had broken off a long time ago, so a bare bulb dangled precariously from the ceiling, offering a little bit of light. My bed was the simple wood frame with a piece of plywood and a couple of blankets spread across it. I used to have the luxury of a mattress and pillow, but my father confiscated those when I came home late from school one day, about three years ago.

I owned a single chest of drawers, a rickety table and a three-legged stool. My father told me that I was lucky to have those, but I had managed to bargain into keeping them. He could get rid of my bookcase, wardrobe, shelf unit and large cupboard, if I could keep the table, stool and the chest of drawers. He surprisingly agreed, but only because he didn't want to see my clothes on the floor and social services say that I have to have a table with a chair for school work. All of my possessions were squeezed into the two drawers, with my school things scattered on and around the table. Clothing wise, I owned five t-shirts, one pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, four skirts, one jumper, seven sets of underwear and seven pairs of socks. I had bought all the clothes myself with my monthly allowance, and it was my responsibility to replace them and wash them. They had all been purchased from a charity shop in town because that was all I could afford with my meagre £10. I also had three pairs of shoes, that were all falling apart and leaked in the rain.

I sat down at the desk, steadying the stool to stop it from falling over. It used to have four legs, but one of them broke off when my father chucked it across the room. It balanced well enough on three legs, but one of them was wobbly so I had to stick a piece of folded paper to it. It didn't really matter because it was better than nothing.


"Girl! Get down here!" my father's angry voice reverberated through the house, causing a tremor to run down my body.

I shut my folder and put away my paper slowly. I knew that if I worked slowly, it would delay the time until I got downstairs, but it would also piss him off. I slipped off the stool and crept down the stairs, trying to be as silent as possible so as not to give him another reason to shout at me.


"Don't say 'yes' in that ungrateful tone!" he snapped.

"Sorry." I whispered.

"Whatever." He sighed heavily, looking me up and down. "Take a shower and get down to the basement."

I knew what this meant. And I was not going to let this happen to me. Not today.

"No." I said firmly, in a voice that was much steadier than my fluttery stomach felt.

"What did you say?" His voice reminded me of a bomb about to detonate.

"I said no. I won't. I don't want it to happen again."

"I give you a roof over your fucking ungrateful little head. I give you ten fucking quid a month. I give you food and water to put in that fat stomach of yours. And this is how you repay me? By denying a simple task that I ask of you? A simple fucking task!" He spat in my face.

I stepped backwards, wiping his saliva off my cheeks.

"Get upstairs." He instructed quietly, but with a tone still full of danger.

I shook my head fearfully. He raised his head to the ceiling before pushing past me. He reached backwards and grabbed my collar, dragging me up the stairs as he went. The backs of legs bumped against each step, but I tried not to cry out.

He threw me into the bathtub and ran the cold tap. The water splashed all over my head, so I squirmed and recoiled to the other end, staring at the flow of water that gradually filled the tub. My father turned his back to me, so I glanced towards the door, hoping for a chance of escape, but it was locked. A padlock hung on the door to stop me from escaping and I had no idea where the key was.

Father turned round, holding a bar of soap in his hands. The freezing water that began to submerge me was turning my light grey t-shirt to a murky black, with my skinny jeans sticking to my legs. My body began to tremble with the cold, but I wrapped my arms round me to stop the shaking. He could not see my weakness.

He came towards the bath, shutting off the water. There was complete silence in the bathroom, save for the occasional dripping from the faucet and my father's heavy breathing. He grabbed my jaw and tipped my head back. He pressed the bar of soap into my reluctant mouth and forced me to bite down on it. He had one hand pressing on the back of my head and the other holding my mouth shut, so I couldn't escape if I wanted to. Instead, I kicked around, sloshing the cold water all over the walls and floor.

I could feel my stomach churning and gradually discovered the sensation of my throat rejecting the bar of soap. I tried to swallow some bile, but ended up swallowing a chunk of soap. When my father saw me choking, he took his hand away and stepped back. I coughed and threw up into the cold water.

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