the untold truths

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 21, 2016

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Submitted: March 21, 2016

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The story untold is the story that is sealed. Locked away in the chambers of my brain. Hidden under the piles of suppressed memories. Soul crushing depression that men of great power couldn't even withstand. With all these thoughts and fake smiles. You'd think an older woman about 25 would have these issues. No. My younger self felt these issues since I was just three years old. Betrayal, lost, alone, hurt; my life was no fairy tale. Ever since I was born, my life started unfolding into lies. The birth of me was thought to keep my "father" close. However, in reality, it was my mother's gateway ticket to all the money she could grasp.

My mother, since as long as I can remember, was a user of heroin , pills, and a few other choice drugs. At the age of three, my mother confessed her long years of lies to my "father." I wasn't his. He delivered me in his bedroom, on his mattress, and opened his heart to the 4 pound 13 ounce baby girl he held. He thought I was all his. He always wanted a girl. That didn't last long. When his money dried up, my mother came clean to what happened. "It was a one drunken night. It meant nothing" she would tell him. But instead of trying to fix things that went wrong. She made them worse. Uprooting me from all I knew, and throwing me into the cruel place called reality.

Being introduced to drugs, murder, sex, anything someone of age would understand, was dumped upon a helpless 5 year old. I was sold, beaten, and raped. My mother found that her fix was more important than witnessing her beautiful baby girls face every day. The house I was sent to was a big yellow shack. I slept in the basement, chained to a wall. I was used as a sex doll for the father of the house. No one knew I was down there. No one heard my screams, and if they did, they brushed it off. No one looked for me, or called the police. My only escape was to kill him. At the age of 7 1/2. I murdered my first and last man.

He crept down into the leaky basement to wake me with gagging on his penis. I bit down as hard as I could, causing it to bleed. He slapped me hard across the face. This caused rage in my veins. I kicked him in the groin, and reached for the keys that hung by his belt. Releasing myself from the cold shackles never made me feel so alive. The fight wasn't over though. He stood up holding himself up by the counter near by. "Get back here you little bitch! I own you!" I didn't stay long to hear the rest of his statement. I dashed up the stairs into a bright looking kitchen. Flowers sat in the window sill, and you could smell the apple pie baking in the oven. How could someone so cruel live in a place like this. Nothing below the ground was anything like above. I didn't take much time to look around the house, because a few steps behind me was the man. I burst threw the front door and ran down the street. I didn't stop running till I made it back to my grandma's house. Nothing was asked where I was, no one even seemed to realize a 7 year old was missing for 2 months.

At the age of 8. I found out that it's me against the world. I knew how to cook for myself, I knew how to bathe myself, I was even home alone for the bulk of my childhood years. No one cared, no one even noticed. I wasn't able to grow up like normal kids. I was raising my 27 year old mother.

The trend kept. Every day was the same. I'd wake up and get myself ready. I'd see if my mom was still alive and didn't overdose, then I'd walk myself to school. I didn't have any cloths back then. I wore the same jeans I had for 4 years, and the same worn shoes, the same backpack my mom stole from Walmart when I was in preschool, the same walk from Rockersdale homes to Evensben elementary. Nothing was different. I thought all kids went threw the same thing. I didn't have any friends. I didn't have any place I could go for a "normal" environment. I was 11.

Time went by, and I began to realize I’ll always be a mistake.


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