I bit my lip, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.
"I will do worse next time if I catch you stealing food again," he said as he buckled his belt and walked away.
I waited patiently for him to exit the room completely.
Sobs filled the space as I finally allowed myself to cry and release all my pain, wincing when I lightly touched my bruises. This time, I didn't think they would fade in just a few days.
I lay in my scratchy bed and allowed myself to sleep, exhausted from all the pain.
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•
I wake up to the sound of yelling coming from downstairs. Glancing out the window, 'it's getting dark' I thought. I'm accustomed to the fights between my foster parents, so I don't think much of the commotion at first. However, when I hear footsteps approaching the door, my curiosity is piqued.
Then I saw him, holding a gun. Fear filled me as he quickly pinned me to the floor. I struggled but didn't cry because I knew it would annoy him more.
"Stop struggling, bitch," he said, his eyes filled with rage. He began removing my clothes, and I fought harder, hoping he would let me go.
I couldn't help it; tears started falling as he continued to take off my clothes. Then I spotted a bottle of beer under my bed. Thinking it might be my only chance to escape, I quickly grabbed it and smashed it over his head.
"You motherfucker!! " he said pointing his gun at my head. "I'm gonna kill you for that, fucker" he continued.
I quickly took a piece of the broken glass and slit his face with it. My mind was full of violence and rage.
I then stabbed his arm, which was holding my clothes. He let out a scream, and that was the best thing I could ever hear, but he took out a knife in his pocket and stabbed my thigh. I screamed in pain and shoved him away, but he got a hold of my arm earning another stab from him.
Groaning, I endured more stabs, all in my legs. Then... the violation. The sickness that followed was almost unbearable, but I found a sliver of strength, a desperate surge of adrenaline. I punched, grabbed his gun, and pulled the trigger, aiming for his head.
He collapsed on top of me, unconscious. I shoved him away, disgust warring with the pain in my own body. The tears flowed again, relentless. He touched me!
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•
After what felt like an eternity of weeping, I found the courage to stand, to run, to escape down the stairs and into the night.
I walked, numbly, hoping for kindness, for shelter. It's freezing, I thought, my blood-soaked clothes doing little to ward off the chill.
"You alright, kid?" A deep voice startled me. I saw him in the shadows of the alley, approaching slowly. He had tattoos peeking from his neck. I flinched back.
"Hey, it's okay. I won't hurt you," he said, his gaze falling on my bloodied clothes. "Looks like you've been through a lot."
"Why don't you come with me?" he offered. I hesitated, wariness battling with desperation.
"I won't hurt you," he reassured me. "Maybe I can help."
"Help me?" I needed justice, yes, but I also yearned to prevent others from suffering what I had.
"How did you know I needed help?"
"I saw it in your eyes-the pain, the anger," he replied, his voice laced with empathy.
It was foolish, I knew, to trust a stranger, but something in his eyes... I felt a pull, a desperate hope.
"Okay," I whispered.
He smiled, a gentle pat on my head. "This way." He led me to a black SUV. He's rich, I thought.
He opened the passenger door. The silence in the car wasn't awkward, just... peaceful.
"I'm Michael, but you can call me Mike," he said.
"Sylvia Monroe," I responded. "But my Nana calls me Sivi," I added, smiling at the thought of the only person who truly cares for me. She's my foster mother's aunt, but she loved me like I was her own.
"That's a nice nickname," he said, smiling back at me.
"Thanks," I replied genuinely.
"So how old are you, Siv? " I asked again.
"I'm turning fourteen next month. " I answered, as he hummed in response.
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•
"Here we are." I looked out the car window at my new home. It was huge-a very modern house, I may add-and it had a swimming pool! 'I already love this house,' I thought, my eyes filled with excitement. Mike chuckled at my reaction as he parked.
"Who's she?" a boy who looked my age asked when we entered the house.
"Omg, it's a girl!" another voice exclaimed. This time it was a girl, accompanied by a few other boys who cast curious glances at me.
"Everyone, this is Sylvia," Mike introduced me to them, and I quickly learned their names. The boy who asked was named Mason. The girl's name was Alayah, and she was the only girl apparently. Antony was the eldest, Eli was the slightly taller one, and Chase was the youngest. I also learned that Alayah and Antony were siblings, which wasn't hard to believe; they both had blonde hair and green eyes.
Alayah and I connected immediately. We talked for hours, sharing our stories, our favorite music, everything. She was the second person I felt I could trust.
Later, I learned Mike's true purpose: to train us, to teach us how fight, to kill. But unlike my previous tormentor, he was also a caring father figure. He owned several clubs, a little trivia most other the country's successful clubs are owned by the Santori's. Most successful businesses in the country are dominated by the Santori family, the most powerful family in America. But, anyway, Mike's real goal was to help abused children like us, to give us the tools to fight back, to protect others. To help us become something more.