Not Scars, Battle Wounds
I could feel my bare feet slapping against the cold, hard, pavement. The chilling wind was unforgiving as it smacked my face repeatedly, as if it were trying to push me backward into his arms. I could hear his footsteps thundering behind me, but I didn’t dare look back. I pushed my legs to carry me further. Further and further away from this nightmare. I just had to reach the waterfall, then I would be safe. I bounded forward ignoring the small stones shredding the soles of my feet. I could feel my hair flying behind me as I raced forward. I swore under my breath when I felt myself slowing down. I knew my feet were bloody, my tears dry on my face, and I could feel all the dirt that was coating my skin. I looked a right mess. But I was going to make it. I saw the fence coming up,
I’m so close.
Out of the abandoned alleyway and into the forest. The waterfall. Im almost there. Suddenly, I felt a solid grip around my wrist that spun me around with so much force my head made painful contact with the brick wall behind me. I could feel the dent, where the skin had been ripped apart. I knew there was blood dripping down my hair and dying it red.
I looked up, expecting to meet his emotionless, brown eyes and sick twisted grin. Instead I found one of his minions. I squirmed under his grip. With the flick of his hand he painfully clutched my wrist. He had one hand covering both my wrists as he scratched my skin across the uneven wall behind me. I stopped struggling causing him to lose the smile. Sick bastard. I would give him no pleasure in watching me suffer.
“Where’s the money, baby?” The nickname made me sick, I could feel his body pressed up against mine. I struggled but I couldn’t move more than an inch.
“I. Don’t. Have. It.” I said through clenched teeth.
“Well, isn’t that a shame. Boss isn’t going to be very happy.” He said, not giving away anything.
“I don’t care what he has to say.” I responded with the truth. He chuckled, a real chuckle. Was he seriously laughing? At me? He actually found humour in this situation.
“He is your Dad, do you not have any respect for him.”
It was as if he had slapped me.
“He is not my Dad.” My voice sounded so empty, like I had nothing left. I laughed at the thought.
“I could make you a deal. Let me pay for it, I can tell him the money is from you. But, I would obviously need something in return.” He smirked at me, I felt his hands run up and down my side. I did not like where the situation was going. I told him once again slowly and loudly to ensure he heard me despite the minor issue with his hearing. He should be able to understand these four simple words.
“I don’t have it!” I spat in his face, my anger and hatred clearly shown in my voice.
He grabbed my wrist roughly, forcing them above my head before he shoved his body weight into me. Suddenly he froze, then slowly dragged his gaze down to meet mine. I held eye contact before I snapped them to his lips as they curved into a small smile.
“Tsk, tsk, Daddy wouldn’t be happy with those scars, babe.” My eyes flickered back to his as he spoke those words. My hands itched to slap him. I forced myself to respond calmly,
“Don’t call me that. Besides, I have no clue what you are referring to.” He chuckled lowly as I glared at him. He pulled my wrist down to show my exposed ‘scars’.
“Weak. Didn’t Daddy teach you to appreciate the life you have.” I felt the tears prick my eyes.
“Those are not scars.” I respond in all honesty. He just laughed,
“How’d you do it, knife, scissors, do you let the little ones watch.” I shook violently in his hold as I attempt to move away.
“Those are not scars. They are battle wounds. Proof of my fight, and proof that I lived.”