Isabella's Point Of View
"Please don't hit me!" I begged him, my foster father and abuser who held tight to a leather belt while my seven year old self, was knelt down before him. Mischa Simmons was the bastard's name, he was a lazy no good drunk that beat me all the time. He was abusive and worked as a truck driver, and every night whenever he came home from work he never missed the opportunity to hit me.
"Shut up you cursed witch!" He slurred on his words. "How many times have I told you, never to talk back to me, huh!" He scolded, delivering another hit with his belt on my back. I cried out but there was no one there to help me. I was forced to relieve these worst moments of my life where he tried to force himself on me. That was the last time I took any of his abuse. He always thought I was the devil so I became him.
