My life had not been a walk in the park by any means. Despite being born to rich parents, an earthquake occurred during the day I was born that led to several disasters; the most memorable one for me was being switched at birth. The home I ended up in had been a disaster in every sense of the word. An alcoholic, gambling father, and a pick-me mother whose sole interest in life was catering to my abusive father.
The worst day of my life happened when I was ten years old. After a long day at school, where I had been subjected to various forms of torture from my peers, I dragged my aching body back home. The door being open should have been my first warning sign, but back then, despite all the shit my younger self had gone through, I had done very little to elevate my survival skills. I found my father sprawled out on the sofa, surrounded by at least twenty empty beer bottles. His state was the second warning I ignored.
I wanted to ignore him because he had nothing but cruel words for me from as far back as I could remember, and it wasn't something I was happy to subject myself to. I would have left him to rot on the sofa, but I knew my mother would take it personally if her husband was not guided to bed despite him being the grown-up in the situation. On typical days, the roles would have been reversed, with my father out and my mother in. It wasn't until that day that I learned it had not just been a routine, but a conscious effort from my mother.
I shook him hard, not sure anything short of an icy plunge would raise him from his stupor. After three minutes of yelling and violently shaking, the man's eyes flared open. He looked around wildly for a minute before settling on me. The instant our eyes locked, every single atom in my body recoiled in fear while my mind screamed at me to run. After the initial shock, I tried to run, but only made it to the door before a pair of coarse hands wrapped themselves around my left midair. As soon as he found purchase, he used my ankle to drag me back, causing me to fall, hitting my chain on the table. The forceful impact had my head recoiling before I crashed down, stunned from the pain.
Before I could gather my senses, he was on me. It only took three seconds to rip my flimsy summer dress from my body. He took another second to admire his victim before beginning his assault. He bit into my skin without mercy as his appendage tore into my ten-year-old body with no pause. My world was enveloped in pain that continued to increase in intensity as his movements grew more animalistic. I had read about sex before, even whispered it with my friends, but at that moment, my brain buckled and could not even place a name to the action. My mind sought distraction while my body throbbed with unimaginable pain.
When he finally finished with me, I dragged my bleeding, aching body to the closest police station. At least one thing I had learned was that in such cases it was best to go to the police station first. I knew what he had done and I knew it was wrong, but try as I might, even when giving my police statement, the word rape refused to escape my lips or form in my mind. It was as if my very being was trying to protect itself by erasing he memory of what had just occurred, but it suck. Two months later, after a lot of abuse from my mother, when I was dropped off at the orphanage, one of the oldest children, the memory of that day kept me awake. More than a decade had passed, and now the wounds had healed, but the invisible scars remained a tear in my soul.
I found my escape in books, believing the propaganda sold at school that my life would magically get better simply by studying harder, so my textbooks became my world. Little by little, I improved my performance with the orphanage and all its chores, offering a safer refuge than my home ever had. The four years leading to high school were neither amazing nor bad. That period of my life was divided evenly between reading and chores during the day and sleeping during the night.
When I got into high school, adolescence had its sway with me, transforming me from a scrawny little hood rat into a young, blossoming woman that pedophiles and agemates were beginning to notice. While I wasn't going to win beauty contests, at that age, I had a youthful charm that was only dimmed by my anxious personality. The girls in school took my undeniable yet understated beauty as a challenge, and despite going to a new school, I managed to make enemies on my first day. On my second day of school, I was cornered by a group of five girls, and it would have ended in a catastrophe for me had Tomas not intervened. I had been extremely grateful for his intervention, only to later find out that the girls would have been a much better alternative.
I was never subjected to any other form of bullying from other students again. However, I was downgraded from a human to property from that day. While I was the literal scum of the earth, Tomas was a golden child who had had the best of everything in life handed to him on a golden platter. The icing on his cake was the fact that his parents were both directors at our school, meaning there was literally nobody at school, not even teachers, who could challenge his authority.
I learned pretty early on just how messed up Tomas was. Although he never hurt me physically, he had me in emotional chains so heavy that the scars still bleed and would probably bleed for all time. A month after our chance meeting and two days after telling him I lived in an orphanage, he organized for his parents to adopt me. Even more ridiculous was the fact that his parents did not even object or pass by the orphanage to verify my origins. I later learnt that even if he had kidnapped me off the streets and brought me home, his family would have still indulged him.
From the day he decided I was his, all my social interactions were reduced to him and his inner circle. I was not allowed to speak or even look at another person, male or female, without his permission. At first, I resisted as any teenager would until a dead body of a boy I had kissed turned up at our school. The police were called and statements were collected, an nothing ever came of it. The victim was another orphaned kid, a playmate from my time at the organization. He had no family to stand up for him, and although there was very little doubt who was responsible for his demise, no one spoke up against Tomas. From that day, both teachers and students gave me an extra wide berth when I approached, and it sang my soul a little every time.
At home, I was given my own room that I rarely ever slept in. Tomas insisted I sleep in his room. He also insisted on bathing me, brushing my teeth, and dressing me up. When he was in the room, the only thing I was allowed to do was breathe, and as you can imagine, being treated like a doll got old pretty fast for my teenage self. I wanted to rebel, but the image of my friend lying in a pool of his own blood discouraged any further resistance. There are a few other instances of strangers walking up to me, and Tomas made sure they never tried it again.
In the four years I was in high school, I did my best to forget everything but the memory of being reduced to nothing but a body etched itself deep into my core, diminishing whatever little was left of my self-worth. Despite living in his home, I barely interacted with the rest of his family, which consisted of his parents and older sister. I was not one to talk, given that my position was doll, but I could have sworn his family, despite all of them being significantly older than him, were terrified of him. He was the future heir, there was no doubt about it, not just because he was male but because no one would survive opposing him.
On the day he travelled abroad, I made my escape while the family was distracted. I had nowhere to go and no one to call, so I wandered out in the streets. After an hour, I ran into a group of thugs who chased after me, causing me to rush into oncoming traffic. I felt my world crack from the impact of the car before I faded into darkness. When I woke up a week later, I was in the hospital surrounded by my parents, who had been tracked using my DNA.