Tangled Love

CHAPTER 3

Walking home reluctantly, I turn the corner and take the chance to study our house. It isn't a home anymore. The front garden once full of beautiful blooming flowers that my father cherished is now strewn with rubbish and litter. I turn the key into the door and slowly push it open, trying to stop the annoying creak. The last thing I want is to wake the monster.

I know Trevor will be fast asleep in the living room by now. . . he has the same routine every day. I can hear his heavy breathing and loud snores before I even have a chance to step a foot inside. I imagine him snorting and rolling around in thick mud just like a pig and snigger, slapping a hand over my mouth. This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

He definitely resembles a pig with his pink bald head and round face complete with a stubby nose. I never understood why Mum is attracted to him...

Maybe it was his bank balance.

Trevor manages his own building site which was once successful but lately his business took a turn for the worse. Instead of doing something about it, he wallowed in his own self pity by drinking all day. Lucky me. Sometimes he'll get a large paying contract which means he's away from the house for a few weeks at a time which is absolute bliss to my ears. I'd eventually begin to relax and the nightmares would be less frequent but then he'd be back, wanting to blow off steam. . .

And I'm his punching bag.

He started off by hitting Mum until one day I stood in front of her in an attempt to protect her. No child should ever witness their mother being beaten by a red faced stranger. Seeing your mum cry out in pain and whimper in fear causes even the quietest of children to protect their family. Trevor hadn't taken my courage well, his whole face raging with anger. I remember standing my ground stubbornly which annoyed him further hence why he began to abuse me. I'm the inconvenience child who's responsible for the failure of his business. Bullshit.

Maybe it's his attitude. I despise violent people, especially the ones who prey on the weak and vulnerable. Trevor has always been a coward who preys on the weak. I know what you're thinking. . .

Go to the police, they can keep me safe.

Well you're wrong.

I can’t go to the police, Trevor made sure of that. He'd constantly remind me of his police officer acquaintances who were always keeping an eye on me.

"If you tell anyone, I'll know straight away." He'd sneer in my face, eyes shining brightly from my torture. "And then, I'll come for you."

There's no doubt about it. . . I'm officially trapped in this hell hole until I turn eighteen. I'll have no money, no family and no roof over my head but that's better than the constant beatings.

My breathing hitches in my throat as I see Trevor stir in his arm chair, his hand clutching a can of beer. Please do not wake up. The smell of smoke instantly smacks me in the face causing me to gag. I take a step towards the stairs, quietly creeping past the door before making a run for it. I take the stairs two a time, going as fast as I can.

My heart pounds as I slam my bedroom door shut behind me and locked the chain, something I had to install myself. No way am I letting that psycho have access to my room. It's the only room in the house that I can call mine. I've lost everything else so I treasure my bedroom.

It's always presentable and clean, unlike the rest of the house. My walls are painted a crisp white with photo's hung on both sides. I want to keep the memories alive when life was bliss. My bed sits in the corner of the room with a fur blanket over the top and various cushions in different shades of blues.

I have a white rug at the foot of my bed where I like to sit and do homework. I kick off my converse and grab a hair tie off the desk, pulling my long dark hair into a high ponytail. I wince as the pain flares through my throbbing scalp. It took me almost ten minutes trying to disguise the bald patch this morning.

I quickly change into pyjamas, grateful for the relief of getting out of my clothes. There's something so relieving about taking off your clothes and swapping them for comfort. I walk over to my mirror and take a makeup wipe to get rid of the little I wear. I mainly use it to cover up the occasional cuts and bruise. Trevor doesn't aim for my face usually as he knows I'll have a hard time covering it up . . . Sometimes he's accidentally catch me or I'd fall to the floor, hurting my face.

As I'm wiping the concealer away, I study my appearance in the mirror, wondering where it all went so wrong. I look exactly like my mother, high cheekbones with full lips and large brown eyes. When I was younger, she'd dress us in matching outfits and I smile at the memory, pain hitting my chest. Somewhere along the way, I lost my mother.

I don't think I'm ever going to get her back.