Those Five Boys

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

THIS IS A ONE DIRECTION FANFIC!

18 year old Amber, has been abused by her dad for almost 9 years! Her dad finally kicks her out of the house (literally KICKS her out) and she is left on the streets. She is being followed by a man so she limps as fast as she can to get away from him. Amber assumes it's her dad. Then, she trips and falls and the man catches up to her......

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Those Five Boys

Submitted: February 09, 2013

Reads: 427

Comments: 1

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Submitted: February 09, 2013

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Those Five Boys

“Get out of my house! If you can’t listen to me, then get the hell out!” A warm tear slides down my smooth cheek and splashes onto the hardwood kitchen floor.
 
“Dad,” I cry. “I didn’t hear you! Please don’t kick me out!” He slams his fist on the table with rage, nearly breaking the table in two. His eyes are full of hate. My voice squeaks as I jump back from the loud bang of his hand hitting the table. His voice rises even louder.
 
“I’m sick of all your lies! I’m sick of you talking back to me! I’m giving you one more chance! If you talk back to me one more time, you’re out on the street!” I bite my lip trying to stop it from trembling. 
 
“B-but Dad…I’m not lying…” He shoots up from his chair and storms towards me. I quickly cower myself towards the kitchen wall. A huge hand grabs my arm, but I yank it away. “Dad!” I scream. “No! No, Dad!” I wail. 
 
“Shut up!” He blusters. He raises his hand and strikes me across the face. 
 
“Ow!” I scream in agony. I drop to my knees and cry. I look up with my soaked eyes, shaking with fright while blocking my face. He raises his hand one more time and lashes me across the face harder. This time, he gets me with his fingernails. My body slams onto the floor from the force of the blow. I feel a warm liquid dripping down my face. I don’t bother to pay any attention to it yet though. I struggle to get to my feet so I can run away but heavy hands grab my wrists. I am drug to the front door. Outside, there are cement stairs to get to our door. There are probably about 10 steps all together. Dad lets go of my wrists and kicks me until I drop down the stairs, one by one. I moan as I finally fall off the last step. I lay there in pain, choking on my tears. Dad says something very repulsive to me; something that no father should EVER call their children.
 
“Go die on the streets you filthy animal.” He spits on me and slams the door shut. For a moment, I just lay there thinking about all the good memories of Mom, Dad, and I. Those memories are ancient now. Dad, mom, and I always use to go hunting together. We use to do everything together. We danced, camped, played games, and we even sung karaoke! Dad use to be such a nice guy… One day, while dad and I were at home watching Sesame Street together, waiting for mom to come home from work, there was a knock on the door. I will always remember that knock. It was a slow knock; a steady but stiff knock. A knock that right away when you hear it, you know something’s wrong. 
 
“Stay here, Angel.” Dad told me. He gently took me off his lap and propped me on the sofa. He softly kissed my forehead. “Keep watching Elmo so you can tell me what I missed!” He teased. I looked at him with a shy smile. Of course, I wasn’t going to pay attention to the TV. I wanted to see who knocked on the door. I watched dad walk towards the door. He slowly opened it. A male and a female were at the door. They looked just like my aunt and uncle. They weren’t happy like they always were, though. They were crying. About ten minutes later, I watched them hug my dad for the longest time and leave. Dad closed the door slowly. Once the door was completely shut, he didn’t look back. He was still facing the door. 
 
“Daddy?” I asked him. “Elmo’s back on.” He looked back at me with an empty expression. Then he slowly walked away leaving me worried and confused on the sofa. The last good memory of me and dad was 10 years ago when I was 8, when me and him were watching Sesame Street. That was the last time he ever called me Angel; the last time he kissed me and smiled at me. As years went on, things started to get worse, Dad slowly stopped spending time with me. I noticed mom has been away for a long time. I would ask dad, 
“Daddy, Where is mommy?” In a hollow and cold voice, He would say,
 
 “Work.” 
 
“Still?” My eyes would fill with tears sometimes and dad would get aggravated. I would keep asking dad where mom was day after day. That’s when the abuse started. One year later, when I was 9, Dad finally had enough of me asking about mom. He slapped me across the face for the first time. I was so shocked and upset that I locked myself in my room and I cried for days. He tried apologizing a couple times, but I would still be too upset to talk to him. He got frustrated with all my crying and started hitting me more. He said, 
 
“If you don’t stop crying, I’ll hit you again!” Of course, I still kept crying. So, he slapped me again. He hitting me only made me cry more.
 
“Daddy! Please! Stop it! You’re hurting me!” I would cry out desperately. He would keep hitting me until I was unconscious; when I stopped crying. He would leave me there, unconscious on the floor, as he would be in his bedroom taking a nap or in the living room watching TV. When I would regain consciousness, I would immediately run up to my room and hide in my closet. I would never go outside unless I had to go out to the end of our bricked driveway to catch the bus for school. I was afraid Dad would follow me and beat me up in a dark ally. Six years later, when I was 15, I finally had the courage to go outside for the first time in years. It was because my best friend, Kelly, finally persuaded me good enough to come outside. When I would be outside, I’d always be alert. I’d jump at any little sound. I never even told her, my best friend, what my dad does to me. Whenever she asked to hang and I said no, she would get mad and ask me,
 
“Amber, why don’t you ever want to hang out after school?” I would lie and tell her I work. “Every day? God, you must make good money then.” 
 
“Ha, Yeah.” I would say, looking ashamed at the ground. Now, I’m 18. My dad still abuses me. I learned my lesson and stopped crying awhile ago, but some nights, dad still hears me sniffling in my bedroom. He would slam the door open and slap me hard. He would hit me whenever I don’t do anything right, or if it’s not done the way he wants it. 
 
My eyes start to sting with tears, and I start to cry really loud. I hear a slam coming from inside the house and I immediately get to my feet. I watch the door fly open to the house and see my dad with our hunting gun. 
 
“Get off my property, you animal!” He aims the gun into the air and shoots. I plug my ears and run off the lawn, onto the sidewalk, and stop a few houses down. I use the white sleeve of my shirt to wipe away the warm tears streaming down my face. When I pull my arm away, I see blood on my sleeve. I ignore it and look up at the street. No one is outside. How could no one have heard all the screaming? Especially the gunshot? All I feel is emptiness, pain, and abandonment. Something catches my attention as I look across the street. There is a boy staring out their window. We stare at each other until the blood running down my forehead gets into my eye. I wipe it away, and walk into the evening air down the street. 
 
It slowly gets darker and darker. The air gets more bitter and chilly. With my arms crossed, I slowly walk on the cement sidewalk under the street lights of this small town. Not many cars drive by. As I walk, I hear a cough in the distance behind me. I start to walk a little faster. I notice that I can hear the person’s footsteps now. I start to speed walk. I hear the person starting to run, so I immediately start running. My mind is saying that it’s my dad. I run off the sidewalk and go towards the beach. Bad mistake. First, no one is here, and second, the sand is slowing my running down.
 
“Dad! Get away from me!” I scream.  I hear panting from the person running behind me. He’s getting closer. “Get away!” Tears start to fill up my eyes. I try to look back but I trip over a stone in the sand. I face plant into the sand. My heart beats hard against my chest as I hear the footsteps right in back of me. I wipe the sand out of my eyes and start to cry loud. “Dad, please don’t hurt me. Please, Dad. Please!”
“I think I’m a little too young to be a dad, ey?” He replies in a distinct accent. I look up and squint my bloodshot eyes to make out a dark figure of a boy. It’s too dark to see him, really. The only thing I can fully make out is his bleach blonde hair. 
 
“Wh-who are you?” I ask, trembling. The boy reaches out his hand to meand I take it. He pulls me up to my feet and makes sure I can stand.
 
“Are yuh alright, ma’am?” He asks, ignoring my question. He takes off his sweater and wipes the sand off my face. I wince in pain as he touches under my eye. He quickly stops. “Oh, I’m sorry, hun. Are yuh alright?”
 
“Not really.” I feel the warm tears gathering in my eyes again. 
 
“Please, don’t cry. I don’t want to see yuh cry.” The boy begs softly in his Irish accent. “Should I take yuh home? It’s getting awfully dark and yur pretty hurt…”
 
“NO!” I choke out. “Anywhere but home!” My voice gets more stern and a tear drops down my cheek. “I…can’t...go home.” The breeze by the lake gives me the goose bumps. I gently fold my arms across my chest to keep warm. 
 
“Here,” The boy hands me his sweater. “It’s dirty from the sand, but put it on. It will keep yuh warm.” I put the sweater on me and he zippers it. After he zippers it, he picks me up in his arms and starts walking back towards the streets.
 
“Where are we going?” I ask.
 
“Well, if we can’t go to yur place, we’ll just have to go to my place.” He states.
 
“Why are you carrying me?” I ask, lightening up a little. The boy looks at me as we walk under the first streetlight back into town.
 
“I don’t really know what happened to yuh, but yuh seem a little beat up…” He looks at me with a sorrowful expression. I look into his eyes. They are the most extraordinary eyes I have ever seen; an electric blue.
 
“And what was your name again?” I ask shyly. He gives me the sweetest smile.
 
“Niall Horan.”


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