CHAPTER 2

I was still wearing my hospital gown, but it didn't seem to matter as Dad grabbed me by my arm and dragged me into the manor. A few workers glanced our way, some even going the extra mile and looking intrigued but none dared to interfere. I caught a glimpse of Ryan pruning a hedge, and he shot me a sympathetic glance before he went back to work. At least he hadn't been fired.

Dad tossed me into my room like I weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He rolled up his sleeves, and glared at me menacingly as he cracked his hairy knuckles.

"After all I've done for you, you ungrateful little wench," he growled. "You have the audacity to throw it back into my face by running away? Do you know how awkward it was for me to explain to police officers that you had gotten up and disappeared? How embarrassing it was to ask for help to look for you?"

He slapped me, hard, and I reeled from the impact. When he moved away, there was a red mark on my cheek, which stung. I didn't dare to meet his eyes, knowing that if I did, my punishment would be worse. I had long since given up on asking for mercy; my father had none to give.

"Dad, I'm sorry," I said, my voice breaking. I tried to be strong, but I was tired. Tired of abuse, tired of pain. Tired of life.

"You think that sorry is going to change my mind?" he asked, as if my question stunned him. I didn't answer. Dad punched me and my head snapped back, as the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I spat out a glob of bloody saliva.

"When I ask a question, I expect an answer. Is that clear?" he hissed.

I nodded. My ankle was throbbing, and my arm felt like it had been yanked clean out of its socket. Not to mention the red mark on my cheek which was going to leave a nasty bruise.

"Where were you planning to go?" he asked.

"Huh?" Had I been in my right mind, I would never have answered in that manner. In as much as my father was a brute and a bully, he had raised me to be a lady-or rather, my stepmother had. He hated casual slang, and above all, he hated the word, 'huh.'

But I was tired, injured and terrified out of my wits of what he would do, so what came out of my mouth was the product of an extremely frazzled brain.

Dad narrowed his eyes, and pinched his thin lips. "What was that?"

He sounded as if he couldn't believe that I was the one who had said that. Me, shy little Ashley. Ashley, who rarely ever spoke out.

"Noth-" I never got to finish my statement, as punch after blow after kick rained down on me. I curled myself up into a small ball, trying to protect myself from his attacks. I had learned that the first places to guard were my stomach and my face. The fetal posture I had adopted helped with that.

My sense of time was distorted as my own father beat me to a pulp on my bedroom floor. I was helpless and hopeless, waiting for the sweet relief of unconsciousness to take the pain away. It never came. Dad stood up, stretching his bloody fists out and looking at me as if I was scum of the Earth, and not his daughter, the child he had raised.

"I hope you've learnt your lesson. Next time I won't be so lenient." With this warning, he swept out of the room, leaving misery and heartache in his wake. And finally, when he left, on that cold, hard floor, unconsciousness came in the form of a dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, the sun shone into my room, promising a better day. I squinted, trying to make out the time from the digital clock that hung on my wall. 9:02AM, it read. I stood and promptly collapsed onto the floor. My entire body hurt, and it felt as if I was just one gigantic living bruise.

My stomach rumbled, which was not unusual, seeing as I hadn't eaten in three days, but strangely enough, I didn't feel hungry. I dragged myself to my bed and somehow managed to slip between the thick sheets, closing my eyes as I drifted off yet again.

I stood alone in a spooky forest. The trees were blackened, as if they had been licked by flames, yet the fire had been unable to burn them completely. Withered flowers crunched underneath my feet as I moved.

Where am I? I wondered.

You are here. A strange, disembodied voice answered my question, and I whipped around, looking for the owner of the voice.

"Who are you?" I yelled, my voice being carried further by the wind which caressed my cheeks, and played with my hair.

I am myself. I am you. I am who you are not meant to be. That is me. The strange voice scared me, and I looked around for an escape route.

Do you not understand? cackled the voice, whose source I could not find. It seemed like it was coming from everywhere around me...and within me.

I am everywhere. You cannot escape me. You are mine, and I am a part of you. You cannot leave me, and I you. We are together, two entities bound as one. Separate beings joined to form one whole.

A loud shriek ensued and I covered my ears as it pierced the eerie forest. It seemed as though it would never end, that the torment was eternal. Out of nowhere, a spark was lit, the forest serving as kindling as the flames drew closer, licking at my skin. The heat was unbearable; it was hot, hotter than the sun. I screamed as the fire engulfed my body, and I fell on the ground and writhed in pain. My skin was blackening, peeling off, and all the while the shrieking was still going on.

Fight it. Another voice, quieter, gentler sounded in my ear. Don't give up; you are a fighter! You are a warrior. My child, get up and fight for Me.

Just like that, the voice was gone, and I wondered if I had dreamed it up in the first place. I stood up although my whole body protested and spoke.

"I don't know who you are, or where you're from, but I will fight you with every ounce of my strength and I won't give up until I win."

The fire died down, and the volume of the shrieking lowered. I went on.

"I am stronger than I know, greater than I think-and I will win, no matter how long it may take."

The fire was extinguished, and the shrieking stopped altogether.

I sat up from my bed as if I had been shocked, covers flying from my body. My breathing was ragged, and my hair was matted down with sweat. Scratch that, my entire body was drenched. The cogs in my mind whirred as I tried to recall my dream. It had been scary, but I could not for the life of me remember what it was about. The only thing I could recollect was one word: fight.

~|~|~

After a long, refreshing sponge bath, given by yours truly, I limped out of my room, determined to find something to eat. I wasn't actually hungry, but even I knew that going three days straight without food would take a toll on me. My clothes were already starting to hang on my frame.

My ankle still hurt, but the throbbing and swelling had eased some. My arm, strangely enough, was fine, even after all the beatings I had been subjected to, and the stitches were still intact. My face, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky.

The mark from my father's slap had changed from an angry red to a murky purple, and the skin around that area was stretched and shiny. The blotch on my face wasn't something that even the best makeup artists would find easy to conceal, and I was an amateur, and barely even that.

I somehow managed to make it to the kitchen, where our cook, Marie, sat. She was the longest serving employee in the household, having worked here even before I was born. Dad changed the help regularly, so very few knew of the fact that he abused me, and if they did, they were pretty good at ignoring it.

I sat at the kitchen island, sighing and placing a palm on my uninjured cheek.

"Sacrebleu! Mon Dieu! Ma cherie, what on earth happened to your cheek?" she exclaimed, taking my chin and twisting my face for closer inspection.

"Dad happened," I said gloomily, and she understood at once. She was the one I went to when Dad beat me, and didn't want to call in the doctor. She knew what was going on, and wanted to report, but I refused to let her, scared that if she did, she would be fired, and my only friend here would leave. She reluctantly complied, but insisted that if ever my father went too far, she'd call in the cops faster than I could blink.

"Zat man, il est trés mauvais!" She launched into some complicated French sentences that I couldn't understand.

"Ashley, you have to report him! He is a bad, bad, wicked man!"

"I know," I said, letting my head fall into my palms. "But even if I do, what are the odds of him being convicted? He'll probably just bribe the judge and go scot free, and hurt me more than before. I can't do it."

Marie sighed, and looked at me with compassionate brown eyes. She hugged me to her plump body.

"Ah, Ashley," she said. "It will all be well."

"I hope so, Marie. I really do."

~|~|~

That night, I lay on my back, staring at my ceiling and thinking. My plan to run away hadn't gone the way I'd expected, and I was scared to try it again. On the other hand, if I were to stay here, Dad would eventually end up killing me.

I tossed and turned on my bed, trying to get comfortable, but sleep to come. So I lay there.

A knock on the door snapped me out of my reverie. I frowned, wondering who it could be. It certainly wasn't my father; he just barged in with no respect for privacy.

"Come in!" I yelled, and the person entered. It was Stacie, my stepsister, the only member of my family I actually liked. Then again, you'd have to be truly evil not to like Stacie. She was sweet and adorable, and always looked on the bright side of life.

"Stacie, what's the matter?" I asked, getting up to go and stand by her side. She looked at me, and in the moonlight from my window, I could see her grey eyes sparkle with tears.

"Can I come in?" she asked timidly.

"Sure, squirt." I pushed on my bed to make room for her, and patted it. "Sit by me."

"What happened to your face?" she asked, as she struggled onto my large bed.

"I tripped and fell." I lied quickly, ignoring the clinching in my stomach as I did so. "What's wrong with you?"

Her eyes shone again, and a single tear streaked down her freckled cheeks.

"Mom and I went to the hospital today..." she started.

"And, what happened?" I urged her to finish.

"We saw the doctor. He-he said..."

"What did he say?"

"I have cancer."