I've always thought that people exaggerated when it came to pain.
That's before I was forced to endure the worst of it.
My whole life was pain. A hardship. In a way, I liked it. It gave every little thing more meaning and made every memory just worth looking back on. It's always given me a sense of self-confidence and pride whenever I look back on what I've achieved. There wasn't a single ounce of pity when I thought about the nights my parents spent fighting and I'd sit listening to each bit, rewording each sentence to fall back on me.
I didn't feel bad about myself when I thought about the day, I'd lost it all: when my father stumbled into that bar, telling me he wouldn't be long.
He'd pulled me out of my mother's hands that night and pushed her onto the wall. She'd stumbled against the cupboard, causing it to shake and one of her golf trophies fell, knocking her out cold. That was my last memory of her.
My father didn't even bad an eye, telling me to walk. He dragged me to my room with one of mum's bags in his hand and stuffed in a few random clothes and a few other stuff, then got me to the car.
He drove haphazardly, cussing every few seconds. I was scared, so I'd clutched onto that black, lace bad with my life. I didn't want to be with my father, but I was too scared to tell him that.
No later he pulled up at a shaggy bar with bright neon writing. I could barely read to remember what it was called.
He then jumped out, and I followed. I didn't know what else to do. He cursed again when he heard my rushes footsteps running behind him as if just remembering my presence, then took me over to one of the benches in the corner. It smelled weird and has grey ash, and burn marked dotting it.
He picked me up and sat me on it. It was the last time we ever touched. I was short, barely reaching his elbows, so he crouched down before smiling: It was a pained smile. I understand that now.
He told me to stay, and that he would be right back before a perky little golden-haired woman peeped through the entrance asking my father if he was okay.
What I didn't understand at that time, was why she would have called him 'honey'. It's what my mother calls him, and that woman was nothing like my mother.
Her eyes were stones while my mothers' were pools of honey. Her hair was corn while my mother's resembled the night. Her body was littered with ink while my mother was a pure canvas; something people could stare at for hours, picturing concepts of wonder. Not an expressed thought they sell-off.
When my father heard her voice, he pecked me on the cheek then told me to wait till he comes back out.
I'd waited for some time, playing my travel-sized snakes and ladders that my father happened to pack for me. I was about to win against myself when I heard his familiar chuckle. He stumbled out, barely making it with his feet. He walked to the car with a bottle in one hand and the blonde in the other.
I packed up as quickly as I could and ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. I called out for him, but by then the sound of his engine had the upper edge.
I tried running after the car but tripped on my open shoelace. I began crying, feeling scared, and soon enough, I was sobbing.
But even then, I was strong.
I tried to remember the way home, but I was only 8. I could barely remember which foot was right and which was left. And being a slow learner did not help.
One wrong turn leads to another, and before I knew it I fell into the arms of the boy who changed my life forever.
Ever since then, the easy way had never been an option. So, what went through my mind when I deemed it fit to try the easy way out for once, I don't even know.
But here I was, paying the price in the only way I've been able to. In pain.
It's been three days, and the hours seem to be taking days to pass. My clothes were drenched, my body was bruised and my limbs were swelling from the insufficient blood supply.
In my time, I've learned a few things. 1) this room was soundproof. It's the only reason nobody would ignore my painful screams. 2) these men, whoever they are. They're dangerous. Even from the gagging, drowning, and torture beyond my deepest, darkest imaginations. I could tell that they were going easy. And their easy was enough to drive me to the edge of insanity.
But for once in my life, I had a reason to live. I need to stay strong.
The door opened with a now firmly screech and blue eyes walked in.
The first day I'd been here was the last I've seen of amusement in his eyes or a glint of a smile that came from a source other than my pain.
He looked more rugged than usual. His familiar dress shirt was swooped for a black t-shirt. And his hair was barely even brushed back.
"Lacey." He called my name when I'd ignored his presence. Honestly, I had no energy to do anything else.
"Lacey," he stood next to me this time "let's make a deal."
At that time, I didn't know the gravity of those words. how it would break me into a person I never knew, and begin a whole new chapter of my life.