Amara

Chapter 1 - The Beginning

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"In the end, we'll all become stories"

- Margret Atwood

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Third-Person POV: There are themes of abuse in this chapter.

The young girl is in her dark shoebox of a room, sitting at her small desk that faces a strange off-white coloured wall. That obviously isn't that colour because of artistic preference. Her fifteen-year-old mind trying to work its way around the complex academia that is algebra.

To most girls her age this is all they have to think about. When the next pop quiz will be, who will invite who to the prom, what they're going to have for dinner. Well, she thinks about that too, but not in the same way. They think about whether they're going to have pasta or chicken. She thinks about is she's going to have anything to eat at all.

As she continues her homework, her head suddenly springs up. The sound of an all too familiar car pulls up on the driveway. Instantly the girl's heartbeat quickens. She stands from her chair, her whole body turning to the right as she looks out of her frosty window.

Her eyes are met with the image of a silver Ford F-150. As the machine rolls its way to a stop, a large man exits the driver's side. He stumbles slightly as he walks to the door, clearly under some sort of influence.

The young girl's eyes are still glued to the man. His light jeans looked like they hadn't been washed in years, his unbranded shoes were falling apart, and the dark blue top that he was wearing had a large stain located right at the front. Finally, he made his way to the front of the house. Her heart sank at the sound of the door opening and slamming shut. Like she is locked in a cage, a cage that only he has the key

Amara's POV:

I can hear him downstairs, my stepdad, Luke, shouting and slurring that I, and I quote "ruined his life!" He's drunk or high on something, I'm never sure which one it is. I mean it wasn't like he was on track to be a billionaire astronaut who would have cured cancer if it wasn't for me. The guy needs to chill out. Not my fault he is the way he is. Well, I don't think it is.

Anyway, here I am. Praying that he is too drunk to walk up the stairs. Maybe it would help if I prayed to someone. But considering my circumstances I'm not into the belief of the big man upstairs. Even if God was real I don't think I would like him very much. He gave me this life didn't he? My only hope is that it doesn't last forever.

My plan is to leave and run away at 18. That way I will have a high school diploma and could hopefully get some kind of job that will keep me afloat. But that won't happen for a while. I'm only 15, meaning that for now I have to stay here, scared of what's behind every door. Well, more who is behind every door.

The loud noise of his harsh voice brings me out of my depressive thoughts. I can't hear the full conversation that Luke is having with my mom, but I could make out "ungrateful" and "bitch", so I think I'm in for a lovely surprise.

My mind starts to race out of all the things that I could have done to make those particular words come out of my stepfather's mouth. But the reality is that it doesn't matter. I could have been the perfect child, with perfect grades and a can-do attitude, and still, I would be deemed a disappointment.

"AMMMAAARRAA!" he screams from downstairs. Almost like satan screaming up to me from hell. 

Shit