Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Twenty-Three: Everything Has Consequences

Chapter Twenty-Three: "Everything Has Consequences."

WHEN I WAS 15, THAT WAS THE WORST OF MY ABUSIVE YEARS.

It was when Charlie was at his worst. He was home often during my sophomore year.

The consequences I would face during my delinquent years was drastic. My injuries were so severe, I couldn't even attend school at that time. I had to take online classes because whenever they were starting to heal, they'd come right back.

Charlie has no heart. I knew that from the very beginning–when I was just learning what feelings were. He was a mad man, to say the least. He had an extremely bad temper, all of which was relieving to him by assault. He couldn't smash walls or break things like normal people would. He couldn't just go out for a run, workout, or walk to relieve his angered self. Of course he's a sadist. He's sick; nobody should enjoy the pleasure of abusing their child.

No, for Charlie, it was all for enjoyment and sport. He was so loving about it. His love for abuse is as much as his hatred for me–which is pretty strong. By then, the voices were strong and always there, so I was deeply depressed. As a result, I started sleepwalking dangerously. I was uncontrollable when it would happen–which was frequently–and I was pretty violent. If I wanted to injure myself without pain, then sleepwalking was the way to do it. Self harm was something that no matter how bad I got, it wouldn't make me feel pain to feel better.

Self harmers would use items to hurt themselves to feel the pain. Now, why have razors and such when I have an abuser in my home to do the pain for me?

It was much, much worse than I wanted. I get whipped, punched, kicked, belted, slapped. He'd even push me down our longest flight of stairs, which, if I may add, had 42 steps in total. Yes, I counted.

The worst one for me would be the big wooden spoon from the kitchen. No, it wasn't the spoon your parents would get when they were younger and they'd get it on the butt. This was worse and probably the most painful thing I've ever experienced in my life.

I'd get it across the face.

Charlie was a baseball player when he was growing up; played in college for all four years until he moved, met Mom, had me, and had his own little fun.

I'd have the wooden spoon slapped across my face so hard, it'd leave imprints for weeks.

It hurt a lot more than words can explain. Now, think about that: I've died a few times, I've been blown up, shot, I've had a knife or something come across me and leave a probable noticeable scar, but I haven't really checked. I've even been strangled, and none of those crammed together could even be close to the amount of pain I endured during that.

He'd hit me his absolute hardest, and I can't recall how many times I've gotten so numb I wouldn't be able to speak. The pain made me cry for hours upon hours nonstop. Luckily I had baby teeth still in back then, because I've lost a few teeth because of it. That hard. I'd be crouching holding my mouth while Charlie would scream at me for things I didn't even understand, and I'd just cry and cry and cry. No, being a baby was never apart of my life and I was too. . . mature to even go down that road.

Tyler would be so infuriated, he could hear my screams from down the road. And his house was a good 10 minute walk down the street.

All that pain built up inside me for the longest of times. I had 15 years worth of pain bottled up back then, it all poured out during my 15th year of life. I had nobody to pour my heart out to besides Tyler. I wouldn't be able to stand seeing Mason or Victoria's faces right when it happens. If Mason seen me right after, there isn't a doubt in my mind that he'd kill Charlie right then and there.