• She was crying again, the tears flowed down her face creating small rivulets on her soft cheeks. She never smiled anymore, everyone knew that, and all she seemed to do nowadays was cry, frown, and sulk. No one would ever talk to her, even though they knew what she went through every single day, they wouldn’t even bother to look her way while they walked down the halls. They though her too worthless to care about; too insignificant to worry for when she walked home slowly, dreading what would happen there. Would she get another cut? Another bruise? Or would she get mentally abused, yelled at with tongue-lashings that seemed worse than any kick or hit. She never knew, but every day seemed worse than the next.

    The neighbors never interfered. Not even if they heard her shrill, piercing screams rise up over the silence of the night. They would not go to the police to help her; they wouldn’t even look the way of the house. They would do nothing for her. Nothing at all. They knew what happened in the house next to them, of coarse they knew. What else could explain the cries of pain heard from it every night and every day? Maybe it was that the neighbors did not help because they didn’t want to become a part of it, or maybe they just didn’t care. Whatever they felt about the situation, no one did anything to help her, so she was all alone with no one to help.

    She would walk to school, the thin line on her face shining in the sunlight, showing of the spot that she had been cut before. Usually it was not seen, for there were always fresh lines across her face, sometimes in the same spot as the scar, a skinny line that went from the top corner of her forehead to the bottom corner of the other side of her face. Angry red lines always seemed to line her face, turning her pretty face into an ugly scratched up one. It was always getting infected, but she was never taken to the doctor’s, so she was always sick from the infections.

    On her lucky days, she was sent to be locked in her room until the next morning, even without food, it was a better sentence than abuse and torture. Those days seemed to be getting numbered, however. She never really was sent to her room anymore. She mostly spent her evenings screaming and sobbing, trying to get her foul mother to stop beating her over and over again until she broke her down. If she wasn’t beating her, she was making her feel worthless with horrible, horrible words, and she always seemed to know just the words to say to make her feel like a waste of space. She was yelled at like that until she thoroughly believed that she was a waste of space that didn’t deserve human kindness.

    “You’re just sorry I’m your mother aren’t you? Well, it’s not me that you should be sorry of! It’s yourself, you disgusting, terrible waste of skin!” Her mother screamed, slapping her in the face. “You were the last thing your father and I wanted, but you just had to come, didn’t you? We were hoping you’d die when they told us you’d be premature. Did Daddy tell you that?” She laughed wickedly, satisfied at her daughter’s distressed face. “The only thing your good for now is work, you understand that, wretch?”

    She couldn’t even cry that night, she had already cried so many tears before then, and she was too distraught to cry, too distraught to sob. Her mother had hit her, kicked her before, but this was too much for her poor little heart. She had missed her father greatly when she had died, she had only been five, and her mother had never spoken of him until then. She hadn’t known her dad had wanted her to die; he had always shown her that he had loved her, but now she wasn’t so sure.

    The next morning, her mother put her right to work on scrubbing the whole house, inside and out. “I want it spotless when I get home. Spotless!” Her mother had cried as she slammed the door, leaving her daughter alone. She hadn’t let her go to school that day, or the next or the next. School was a privilege for her now, it was a prize for her if she did something right, but it could be taken away with one small mistake. She was seen less and less by her classmates, and she spent more and more time at home, working the day away.

    Life seemed to pass by quickly for her. A life full of fear, work, and pain. One small speck of dirt on a dish, and she went hungry for a few days. No big deal, but her mother seemed to be forgetting to feed her. She was just a worker now, and why should her mother concern herself with the matters of lesser people? Most people could go a few weeks without food, but she wasn’t used to life without food, and she was too afraid to open the fridge and take something for herself. What would happen if her mother came in when the door was open? Would she hurt her again, kick her, beat her? It was just too risky.

    On this certain day, she was on the bus heading back towards the Hell she knew as home. Her mother had been kind enough to allow her to go to school that day, but it really didn’t make a difference. A group of kids had made fun of her, again, for the fact that she was hurt all the time. Was it a good reason to hurt someone? She didn’t think so, but it still happened. If she could stand up for herself, maybe they’d back down, but she said nothing, so they continued, and she knew as long as she did nothing to stop them they’d torment her, just like her mother, making her life a never-ending nightmare.

    The big yellow bus stopped, and she stumbled off of it, her sight blinded by her tears. She was left alone when the bus pulled away, and she contemplated running away, but she knew she’d never make it. Her mother would act worried and ask the police to bring her back, and that’s what they would do. She would only be punished for her disobedience, and that would result in something horrible, so she started to walk towards her home, her feet dragging to whole way.

    “What took you so long?” Her mother screamed when she entered the house. “You’re late, and for that you need to do twice as much work!” Her daughter looked at her with a blank look, but it didn’t hide the sadness that was clearly evident in her blue eyes. “Well, what are you looking at me for? Get to work!”

    She had to do as she was told, so she carefully put her backpack on the floor and hurried off to do her normal chores. Vacuum practically the entire house, scrub the dishes until the shone, make her mother’s bed, and wash the bathrooms no matter how clean they were. Most of that took the entire night, so she wondered what her mother would think of for her to do, there wasn’t much to do in the small house anyway.

    She vacuumed until her mother complained that it was too loud, and scrubbed dishes until her hands were raw, wrestled with her mother’s sheets, and washed the bathrooms, top to bottom until everything seemed to glow. When she was done, her mother called her over to her, only for her to be slapped. “It took you too long,” Her hand collided with the small girl’s face again and again. “Move faster next time,”

    Anger built up in her heart until she felt like she would burst. She couldn’t keep in her voice inside herself, so she yelled, “I would’ve been done much sooner if you hadn’t given me pointless chores like always, you b***h!”

    All that brought her was another slap in the face as well as a kick that sent her to the floor. “Don’t you ever call me that again!” The older woman shrieked, kicking the motionless form on the floor over and over again. “If you do, I swear I’ll murder you!” The foot collided forcefully with her stomach, causing her to cry out in pain. When her mother was done with her fit, she sat down again, an angry look on her face. “Get up and go to your room. I don’t want to see your face again,”

    She picked herself up and limped off towards the stairs. It was a normal night for her, but she just couldn’t take the abuse anymore. She was going to do something about it. When the door slammed behind her, she switched the lock, so no one could open the door. She didn’t want her mother to find her gone until the police came knocking at the front door.

    She thrust open the window and lowered herself through, she was surely skinny enough to fit. When she was on the lawn she bolted off, making her way off the street and to the police office. The streets were long and dark, and she stumbled more than once, scraping her knees until they were all bloody, but she kept going till she made it. Once at the doors, she pushed them open and stumbled inside.

    A startled police officer looked up at her as she entered and he said to her, “Is everything all right?”

    “No,” She sobbed, falling to the floor in a flurry of tears. “Everything isn’t all right! It’s far from all right!” Her words were lost in her tears and soon she was bawling like a newborn baby. The police officer didn’t seem to know what to do. He stood there and patted her shoulder awkwardly.

    “Well, if you tell me what’s wrong,” He began, “Maybe I can help,”

    “M-my mother,” She started, her voice choked up, “She hurts me every day, and I can’t take it anymore!”

    “Oh dear…” Said the man, “You’d better stay here,” He moved her over to a bench, where she lay down. Here eyes closed, and she fell asleep. When she awoke, her mother was being dragged through the doors in cuffs. All the while she was yelling threats to the officers that they paid no heed to. When she spotted her daughter on the bench, she screamed so loudly, some of the officers had to cover their ears.

    “You!” She yelled, “It’s all your fault!” She tried to lunge at her, but she didn’t get the chance, for the officers took her away. One came over to her and handed her a key.

    “You can go back to the house and get your belongings. I’ll have one of my men take you to it, how does that sound?” His face was kind and she smiled.

    “Thank you,” She said, taking the key with a hesitant hand. Soon she was back at the front door of her home, turning the key so it made a clicking noise. She walked inside the house, and shut the door behind her. There wasn’t much she wanted to take with her. It’s not like she wanted to remember her life there, no that wasn’t it. So all she took with her were her clothes, and the few toys she had. Nothing more.

    She packed up, and looked one last time at the house. How many times had she been beaten? How many tears had she shed? She couldn’t answer, but she got up and made her way to the front door. The sun was poking it’s way past the horizon when she opened it, and she set her foot out on the lawn for the last time with a smile on her face. And she was crying again.