I'm trying something different from what I normally write, but I quite enjoy writing stuff like this.
My father used to tell me when I was younger, crying was for the weak, and that it made me resemble an ugly toad. He said that he expected it though because I was just a young girl who couldn't help herself. He told my mother that she was weak and pathetic countless times when he's beaten her. Sometimes she'd come out fine, sometimes she'd come out not being able to walk. Either way she would cry, and I could only watch. It's been years since it first started happening. I was eight, and my mother had just gotten a promotion at her job. I remember because she wouldn't stop talking about it to her friends. She invited them to our house for her Wednesday night book club.
Sometimes I would sneak in and try to listen, but mother would catch me. She'd say that the books they were reading were for adults, so I wasn't allowed to listen to them. But that night I was especially excited because mother didn't catch me, and I could listen. But I was cut short for my father just arrived home. I could tell he was stressed by the way he walked and talked angrily. He had told all of the women to go home, even though that had just got there a little bit ago. All of them left hesitantly, grabbing their purses and such.
My mother complained, trying to somehow work out a deal, but my father roughly grabbed my mother's arm throwing her to the ground. I hid behind the corner more now, for I had never seen my father act hostile like that. He hit her repeatedly. Tears stung my eyes at every uneven breath she gave, and every word she tried to speak. But he gave her no mercy. He left her that night with a broken arm and bruises covering her abdomen and thighs.
I had no idea why he did it until a few nights after when my mother confronted him, asking about what she should tell her boss, for she couldn't work like that. This had made him furious, yelling about how she got a promotion because she was a whore. He said the only reason she got it was because her boss fancied her and she had worn a skirt that day. My mother wasn't allowed to wear a skirt or a dress after that, nor was she allowed to go back to work.
I pretended not to know about what happened. I was scared of what he could do to me, but he seemed to not care if he hurt my mother in front of me. It was only until I was eleven when he started acting violent towards me. I was helping mother cook dinner, and afterwards my father had asked me to make him a plate. I had obeyed, quickly picking items of food from different pots and pans. I went to give him the plate, but I had tripped on the rug set under the dining room table. His plate of food scattered on the floor.
He stood up just as quickly as it fell, yelling at how clumsy I was. He slapped me on the face so hard, I fell to the floor making a loud sound. I covered my face with my arms and curled into a ball. Before he could hit me a second time, my mother got in front of me taking the hit, and the ones after that too. The next day I felt awful. She was covered in bruises that were meant for me. I blamed myself.
That was chapter 1. :)