Leah Stark - The Unknown Child

1.00.1

Trigger Warning
This story contains mentions of the following:
-Physical Abuse
-Mental Abuse
-Kidnapping
-Mentions of Depression
-Substance Abuse
-Swearing
-Stitches
If you are triggered by any of these things, I would recommend turning away from this book now and reading something else. Thank you.

Leah's POV

The pitter patter of raindrops could be heard on the umbrella over my step-fathers head as he watched me crouched over the hole in the ground. I stared emotionless, empty, at the place my mother's corpse would remain for the rest of eternity.
Thank gods the funeral wasn't open casket. The 'accident', as I learned to call it, mangled my mother so much she was barely recognisable from the pretty fun-loving woman I held so close to my heart. I had the bruises to show from the 'accident', unlike my step-father who caused all of this.
"We're leaving" He grunted, keeping his anger in check; he had to, there where people around. Quickly, his vice like grip circled around my wrist and I found myself being dragged towards the beaten up Chevy. I was flung into the backseat, the door slamming behind me, before the oaf of a man clambered into the drivers seat.
The drive back to the house was silent, and I sat stiff as a board, careful not to make his mood worse. I couldn't call that place home anymore, not without mum.
My stepfathers real name was Oliver, and he was a nice man when he and mum first met when I was three. He took the both of us out every weekend to the park or the cinema, and called us his girls. It was like we were a proper family. They even got married when I was 6 and I was a bridesmaid. But then he lost his job, and drink rules his life. When he drank he got violent with me and mum, he called mum a slut and a whore and me a bastard and a spoilt brat. Mum always said she had to stay, because he was just going through a tough patch, and 'it will get better'. Soon anger was just his default and not interfering was just self preservation on our parts. The 'accident' was just one of those days he was worse than usual, but you'll find out about that later.
Anyway, as we pulled into the driveway of the small house that used to be filled with happiness and cheer, I was yanked out of the car. Oliver held onto the top of my arm as he dragged me inside. He was clearly mad about something.
Just keep quiet, my brain told me. Just keep quiet and it won't be that bad. I was thrown on to the floor before an assault of punches and kicked rained down onto my frail, pale body. His demon had been unleashed and when it had been released, it wasn't going back any time soon. Pain coursed through my body as I curled up into the fetal position, protecting the back of my head from any heavy blows. Silent tears rolled down my face as the assault continued on my helpless body.
I could feel my bones break and crack ant the slightest muscle movement. I could feel the black and blue bruises form over my muscles. It soon became overwhelming and a cry burst from my lips.
He stopped, staring at me. His rage poured from every pore in his body.
He walked away.
I instantly started to crawl towards the only room with a lock, the bathroom. I could recall my mother telling me she had hidden a first aid kit in a panel under the bath, just in case. I pushed my body further and further than what should have been possible for a bruised and bartered child.
Each twitch of my muscles sent an overwhelming pain through my body, but I kept moving closer and closer to the bathroom.
The sound of metal scraping against a wooden knife holder echoed around the house.
My heart beat fast in my chest as I pulled myself quicker towards the bathroom. I attempted to regain my footing, to run into that bathroom just meters away from me and lock the door, but I couldn't.
His steps grew closer. They were slow and steady, like the sick bastard enjoyed watching me struggle to hide.
I was suddenly grabbed by the ankle and my back was pushed against the wall. I sat straight up, tears spilling out of my red puffy eyes.
I could feel the cold metal of the knife slice through my thigh, and then again on my torso. The blood spilt from the wounds onto the white dress I wore to the funeral.
"That should teach you that little bitches should stay quite." He yelled before slapping me around the side of the face and staggering down the hall, no doubt to get a beer.
I stood up slowly, every fibre of my being smothered in pain and rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind me, so he didn't burst in to take more anger out on me.
I sat on the floor and popped the panel out from under the bath and pulled out the small first aid kit.
I smothered the two cuts in numbing gel and antibacterial cream before preparing a needle to sew the wound shut. I winced as I plunged it in and out of the skin, bringing the two flesh wounds closed once more.
I sat, a small wet flannel in my hand, dabbing the cuts clean before wrapping them up, thinking about what I could do. I couldn't go into the states custody, I had heard from some of the foster kids in my class that it was horrible and no one cared either way, and I definitely couldn't stay here, I'd end up dead. Then it hit me. I'd live by myself, travel around the country.
I walked silently to my room and pulled the blood covered dress off my body and changed into a pair of jeans, a green jumper and a black jacket, before packing a small rucksack with some changes of clothes and the little pocket money I had saved over the years.
I pulled open the window before jumping out.
"No turning back now." I muttered to myself, matching down the road towards the bus stop. I had no end destination.