Alessandra's POV
"Fuck... it hurts like a bitch." That's the first thing I think when I wake up.
Everything hurts.
Last night, they did a number on me—bruises, scratches, broken skin. All because I didn't make the dinner they wanted, like I have some psychic ability to read their damn minds. And yet, they still ate everything I made without a word of thanks. When they were done, they left me there, collapsed on the kitchen floor. Too exhausted to move, I just passed out right where I was. Slowly, painfully, I drag myself toward my "room"—if you could call it that. It's a small storage closet I've claimed as my own.
There's an old mattress on the floor, some threadbare sheets, a pillow that's seen better decades, and a tiny dresser that holds my few possessions. Not that I have much; according to my mother, I don't deserve anything. Just having a roof over my head is a miracle in her eyes. I check my injuries, wincing at the bruises blooming across my ribs and arms. Then I take a cold shower. Hot water is limited—if I use it now, it won't be hot again for hours, and if they find out, they'll punish me again. No thanks.
Afterwards, I brush my teeth, staring at my reflection. I look half-dead. My torso is a roadmap of scars—old ones, new ones, purple bruises blossoming across my ribs. I turn to see my back, even worse: burns, scratches, scars carved into me like some sick artwork. Sarcasm fully intended. Clothes of the day: baggy hoodie, old jeans. Big enough to hide everything. hair tied in a messy bun. After I am done, I make my way towards the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Elena and Dave—the "lovely" couple who are call themselves my parents. Coffee, bacon, pancakes.
By the time I finish, it's 8 a.m., and I hear them coming down the hall. I don't call them mother and father anymore—they don't earn it. They sit. Dave motions for me to serve, and I obey. After finished, I retreat to my room because, according to them, "Seeing your disgusting, ugly face makes us lose our appetite." It wasn't always like this. When I was younger, it was just my mother and me. She wasn't perfect, but she didn't hit me every chance she got. She just yelled, called me names, made me do chores, threatened to abandon me—like my father did— but at least she didn't break me physically... at first. Then it got worse. Hitting became a regular thing, and when she married Dave when I was ten, it became full-blown torture. My thoughts are interrupted by a shout.
"Alessandra!"
"Shit." I head to the kitchen. Of course, I get kicked in the stomach before I even reach them. Dave storms toward me, rage burning in his eyes. "You fucking bitch! Did you lose your hearing? Can't you hear me calling you?" I shake my head.
"So now you're pretending, are you ignoring me you little bitch?"
Shake my head again. Selective mutism. They think I'm mute because of the day Elena choked me so hard I thought I'd die. After that day, I realized talking didn't matter. Crying didn't matter. Pleading didn't matter. Nobody listens anyway. So now I just tune them out. And they don't know any better—they think my voice is gone. Technically, they're not wrong. They keep yelling, hitting. I shut it out. One last slap, and they're gone, off to drink and do whatever shady crap Dave does with his gang. I have no idea what goes on all day. Probably stealing, smoking, alcohol and drugs, whatever keeps them busy. I rise, patch myself up, and move on.
This is just another day in a life that's been hell for as long as I can remember.