Alpha of Doom

Chapter 1- Punching bag

Holland Roden as Lily Tate. 

Hey babes just a warning that there is some mistakes because originally Nick Bateman was playing Luca and I haven't edited most chapters

I suggest that if you don't like this book then don't read it instead of writing comments of what I should do and what's bad, but please enjoy.

I'm younger then 15 so it's not going to be perfect

TRIGGER WARNING: this story does mention harsh topics including physical and sexual abuse. If you do not want to read anything about that, stop reading now.

Now let's stop with the serious Crap and get to some story time!

Mildon_x (Karen) edited some of the first chapter

Keely
~~
Beep! Beep! Beep!

Groaning in annoyance at the coming of another terrible day, I slam my fist down on the alarm and quickly jump out of bed.

Running around the room, in a way that would rival a complete and utter mad man, I gather a few clothes strewn across the floor and throw them on, before taking off down the stairs to prepare breakfast.

Sighing, I manage to hold back a panic attack as my watch shines 5:45. 15 minutes. I have 15 minutes to get everything ready, thats not enough time! Im stuffed, I'm done! I'm good for dead!

Racking my hands through my hair, I stop walking and take some deep breaths.

"Now is not the time to worry. Just get it done and get out," I whisper to myself, and before I know it I'm dusting off my hands and scurrying over to place the plate on the wooden table in between the cutlery and orange juice.

Wasting no time I leave the kitchen, this time with more persistance then what I entered with. My feet, as if having a mind of their own, automatically move down the hall grabbing cleaning products along the way, I find myself from routine standing in the bathroom as my hand automatically reaches out to wipe the bench.

Suddenly, loud thumping fills the silence and I gulp nervously. But then it stops. There is no more banging, no stomping. Nothing. Just silence.

Bit it didnt last long.

"LILY!" The devil himself yells. With a sigh and shaking hands, I walk timidly down the hall and into the kitchen.

"Y-yes sir?" I stutter.

"What is this?!" He roars.

"Food s-sir," for that comment, I get a punch to the face. With my hand covering the stinging, red fist shaped mark adorning my cheek, I squeeze my eyes shut. Trying to hold in the tears.

If I cry, he will go harder.

"Don't be sarcastic with me!" I feel an impact to my side, which sends me falling to the floor. Curling into a ball, I protect my face and stomach; my usual defensive act as I contemplate life.

My body, already bruised and battered from days, weeks, years of beatings, continues to be battered. I don't know how much longer I can handle this. How much longer my body can handle this. Sometimes I wish I could just drift off into space. Go far, far away and never come back, but I cant.

I'm their punching bag. Just dangling their, tied to the house and unable to leave. I hate it and I don't know how much more hurt my body can take.