Chapter One

Chapter 2

If you’re still reading that means you don’t give a... care... about how much this story will break you down. Yeah. You caught me. I wanted to say something bigger than care. My story begins in 1984. The year I was four years old, and the year I got my first beating. “WHO BROKE MY TYPEWRITER?” Vixen Oliver screamed. Yep. That’s my mother. “Sorry, Mommy. I wanted to write a story, like you do.” My young self whimpered. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE?” She yelled. I shrugged. “THAT’S IT.” She went into my father’s closet, me wondering what she was getting. A whip. She smacked it against my skin. I screamed in terror as blood rushed down my face. “Vixen, enough!” My father ordered, but she shoved him out of the way. “This little brat needs to learn a lesson.” She growled. That was the worst night of my life. Then came many more. Day after day, I grew more bruised and scarred, outside and in.