The Million Dollar Man

I didn't respond.

I physically couldn't.

I just stood there while Callum got the car for us, and sat silently the entire way home.

Cautious eyes regarded my every movement, but I remained blank.

As we arrived home, I walked upstairs without another word, and entered my room, then my bathroom.

I felt my knees give out as I vomited weakly, the acid burning my throat. With a feeble hand, I flushed the toilet and washed out my mouth. My lips quivered for a fraction of a second, and I felt as though I was going to break down. Like actually break down.

When I left the woman, a piece of myself was left behind in that alleyway.

I stripped quickly, and climbed into the shower, allowing the scorching water to burn my skin.

I caught sight of my reflection in the small mirror that had been placed against the wall in the shower, and found myself letting out a sarcastic snort.

How ironic-putting a mirror where you're most vulnerable, and bare. Maybe it was placed there with the intention that you would be able to see your own vulnerability.

I felt life drain from me as I looked into my eyes. The blue orbs were tinted gray, with almost black flecks.

There were monsters inside of me, according to my eyes, and even I knew it to be true.

+++++

Tonight, I left a piece of myself in the alleyway, as I had done throughout my childhood, whenever I caught my parents in the same state.

I saw my mother in that woman, especially when it came to the glazed over eyes. My dad said it was the drugs that had destroyed her, but I knew that wasn't the truth.

It had been my father.

He was a cruel man, which is something not a lot of people knew, or even had the chance of finding out.

He was angry, and so he took it out on my mother.

It made her sad, so she abused drugs.

It broke my heart, so I became heartless.

Tonight, when I saw that woman look at me, I don't actually think there was a flicker of hope. I don't think there was any desperation. I don't think there was anything that implied that she needed to be saved. I think I had just imagined it all, like I had done with my mother.

As I exited the shower and entered my bed, I felt my body quake with pain.

I was being haunting by my screams, my desperate pleas that I had memorized as a child, whenever I attempted to help my mother.

But I couldn't.

I was weak.

And now, because of Sebastian King, I am weak again.

Don't worry, Evie, I thought comfortingly, you've got few more pieces left in you.

You haven't run out yet.

And those words gave me something my mother never had---

Hope. 13

<< And with a feeling I'll forget, I'm in love now >>

Mama and dada, mommy and daddy, mother and father, or mom and dad, it seems as though the names for parents embark on a journey through innocence, as the child grows older.

<< Mommy, >> and << daddy, >> are childlike references to parents, and tend to be changed.

Call me crazy, but I find it to be heartbreaking when the names change. I see it as a sign of loss, the loss of innocence and the weakening of a relationship.

We are brought into the world pure.

For the very first second we enter the world, we know nothing but love.

Unfortunately, in order to survive we must be altered and molded into something that this world will accept.

Innocence is lost and I swear to you it can never be found.

Now you tell me, I beg of you, tell me that the world is not fucked up? Tell me that one can live a pure life without being tainted by hatred and prejudice- Because I would love to know if I could have avoided all this corruption.

The very thought sickens me.

Could I have been saved, salvaged from the ruin that was my life?

Whether or not I could have been, there's one thing I know now.

I have been beaten, broken, and abused.

Nothing can save me now.

Not even a devilishly handsome, rugged, brutal gang leader that has focused all his determination on saving his broken girl.

No, not even Sebastian King can save me.

+++++

I remember the way my mom used to cry. How her shoulders would heave with every sob, and how for hours afterwards, she would hiccup and let out shaky sobs.

I remember how I would hold my small hands over my ears, hoping to drown out her screams of pain.

But the part I remember most is how she would act after it all.

How she would look at me, through heavy lips and glassy eyes, and give me a smile, telling me that, << It's okay, I'm okay. He loves me. >>

And when I was younger, I believed her. It wasn't like I had realized what was happening.

How could a six year old know that her father was abusive? How could she know that her mother was a drug addict? How could she possibly understand how cruel and unforgiving the world really was? These were questions I had always asked myself.

How? Why? Could I have prevented it? Did I even try?