Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Chapter 1 they hurt

There has always been a storm raging in my life, for as long as I remember. And for as long as I remember, pain has always been a part of it. But I guess growing up in this bleak gang life-style will do that to you. Why can't I leave? Because I am forever bound to this place.

Trapped.

I am trapped within the confines of my father and his gang, with no escape. I am like that of a tiger at a zoo, pacing the cold, unforgiving bars, longing for freedom. Like the captive tiger, I am longing to be set free from my captivity. But I am trapped. Trapped by the cage fear. Trapped behind the bars of my torment.

Abused.

Abuse. One of the many dark things I have known all my life. Abused by my own flesh and blood. Abused by the very gang that tells me I am family. But what real family breaks their own loved ones?

Beaten.

Beaten into submission. Struck down to the point of no return. For they say that one is easier to control once their mind, soul, and body are shattered, are broken.

And that brings me to what I lastly describe myself as.

Broken.

Here I am, lying on the cold, wooden floors of my tiny bedroom, currently curled up on the floor, because there is no bed for comfort. I am desperate to pick up the pieces of my broken life. But how can I do that when my life, which is shattered around me, cuts me like glass every time I try to pick it up and put the pieces back together? You may be asking, "What caused you to be broken?" I will tell you alright.

My name is Dakota, and this is my story.

* * *

A chilly draft seeps through the wooden floorboards of my tiny bedroom. I shiver as the cold air hits my face, and I roll over on my side, groaning in pain, curling up into an even tighter ball in an attempt to preserve some body heat. I wrap the thin, faded pink blanket even tighter around me, but it does little for the comfort I crave but cannot find. Wooden floors are not very comfortable, especially when you happen to be bruised up.

My supposedly rich dad can't even provide me with a bed.

He can't, or he won't?

He definitely can, he just chooses not to invest any money on his daughter known as just "The Gang's slave." After all, to him and the people around me, I'm merely property. The more you dehumanize me, the easier it is to abuse me, hence the reason for no bed. Humans use beds, but you're only property.

See, dehumanization.

The sound of distant footsteps slowly rattle me from my dazed state. And as I awaken, I become aware that these aren't just any footsteps. These footsteps are heavy and loud. These footsteps belong to none other than my very father. And suddenly, I find that these footsteps are no longer in the distance, for they are now approaching my bedroom.

Thud. Thud Thud. THUD. THUD.

I uncurl myself from the single blanket I intertwined myself in. But from last night's beating, I was struggling to find the strength to move at all. I propped myself up onto my elbows, and finally made it into a sitting position, wincing at the pain from the bruises shooting up my body. I roll my shoulders, trying to alleviate the tightness, only to cause rippling pain up my back, a painful reminder of the beatings I have sustained last night.

The door violently swings open, slamming into the wall. I kept my head down, letting my ragged, oily chocolate brown hair curtain my face. I am not aloud to look anyone in the eye unless I am commanded to. I am nothing but broken property who will be treated as such.

Before I know it, I am face to face with big, black boots. I hear the angry sigh of my dad.

"Look at me." He gruffles out.

I gulp and slowly bring my eyes to his, meeting his dark stare. His peppery hair showing signs of age, as he glares coldly at me. His eyes are full of evil, reminding me of that of a violent beast, pacing desperately, anxiously waiting to be set free.

"Stand up." He says, the venom lacing his voice.

Oh no.

I get on my knees, slowly rising to my feet. I wince in pain in doing so. My legs are shaking, covered in purple and yellow bruises, and I find myself clawing at the walls for support as a sudden wave of nausea hits me. I stumble in my footing, but quickly catch myself as I look down at my feet.

I am met with pain as he backhands me across the face. He hits me so hard, that I stagger into the wall, then crashing down onto the ground and onto my side. Copper tinges my mouth, as blood oozes from the side of my lips, and I spit a few times in an attempt to wash away the taste of blood lingering in my mouth.

I will not cry. I will not sob.

I will not give him the pleasure of my screams.

He yanks me up roughly by my hair, making me stand on my bare feet once more.

"I didn't tell me you could look away from me!" He says, roughly yanking my face up to look at him.

"You do as I say!" He barks.

I nod my head weakly, trying to find my voice.

As he glares at me, I feel blood trickle down my thigh, rolling onto my knee, and finally dripping onto the floor, collecting with the rest of the blood that's been spilled here. I close my eyes tight hoping he doesn't notice.

But he does.

He glares at the blood rolling down my leg.

"What's this?" He says sharply.

"T-The gang m-members were r-rough with me last night." I stammer quietly, ashamed of what's been done with my innocence. I shut my eyes, trying to ward off the tears threatening to spill.

One of the many jobs I have around here is to serve the gang members of every need. Last night, while I was walking back up to my room, I was grabbed by one of the members. He dragged me to his room, while several other members were waiting for me, laughing and recording my torment. And they all took turns with me.

Shivers run up my spine as I remember. I feel so ashamed.

"Go clean up, and hurry so you can start your duties." My dad says flatly before leaving.

He doesn't even care about his own daughter and what's been done to me.

For as long as I remember, life has always been this way. My mom was murdered when I was three years old. Well, that's what I think any way. I think my dad murdered my mom in cold blood for her life insurance, but covered it up to make it look like a hit and run. Will the truth ever be known? Doubt it. It's a secret that will remain buried in my life.

I break myself out of my thoughts and limp to the cramped, run down bathroom. Mold crawls everywhere in my living quarters, growing on the ceilings and walls. My shaky hands reach out and turn the sink on. Unfortunately, I am only provided with ice cold water. Warm water would help ease the ache from my bones. But this is water nonetheless, and I can't help the sigh of relief that escapes my lips as I let the water run over my wounds. After a few minutes, I peel off my shirt and grab the sponge from the counter and dab the wounds and bruises that paint my abdomen and ribs. I cringe from the sudden sting, but immediately relax as the damp coolness calms the raging pain.

Next, I throw on my white, tattered tank top and slip into my old black sweat pants. I don't even bother to look at myself in the mirror. Because my reflection will just remind me of who I am.

A used, broken girl with no hope for the future. A piece of property, to be thrown out when it gets too worn out.

I shake my head away from my emotions. You'd think, after all the years of abuse, that I would be emotionless. I mean, the gang members traffic women, so I've seen my fair share of women, who have just turned off a switch. They just become shells of their former selves. Life no longer dances in their eyes, and they no longer sob when they are beaten. It's like they are robots who have been programmed against feelings.

But, in a way, I wish I could become like them. Because if I no longer could feel my emotions, then I could no longer get hurt. It's just a defense mechanism, after all. A defense mechanism, that I wish I could learn. A defense mechanism, that I can't learn, for whatever reason.

I grasp the loose rickety door knob, and open my door. My door creeks loudly through the house, alarming everyone that their toy is awake.

I step down the old wooden stairs, and make my way to the nice, large kitchen. You know, it's funny. I live in a mansion, a very nice mansion, to be exact. My dad and his most trusted gang members live here. They all live like Kings reigning over their Kingdoms, with their pride, luxurious rooms, and good food.

But you know what every Kingdom has?

Peasants.

Throughout history, peasants were forced into hard labor all their lives, just barely getting by in life. Peasants were despicable to the higher classes, who thought of them as dirty outcasts in society. They were looked upon as nothing more than dirt to be stepped on and thrown out. And the bleak thing is, there was no getting out of it. Once they were in, there was no way out. Most were born into this fate.

In the same way, I was born into this fate of servitude. I am nothing more than a slave, who is an outcast to society. I am worth nothing, and there is nothing I can do about it. There is no way out.

I continue to cook the eggs for my dad, who demands breakfast every morning at 5 AM. Then, at 6 AM, I am to get ready for work. I work at a little old restaurant down the street. My dad demands that I work to "pull my own weight" as he puts it. I don't understand his logic, since he is already rich and puts no effort into me or my needs. I cost him nothing. It's just one of his ways to try to make my life more miserable. In a way, though, working as a waitress helps keep my mind off things. I have a friend at the restaurant named Shontell who chats a lot, and that makes me forget about my pain, even if it's just temporary. She knows about the bruises on my body, but she respects my decisions, even though she doesn't agree with it.

I make my way to my room to get ready for work, being sure to make mental checks.

Dishes done. Breakfast made. Did I miss anything?

"Girl!" My dad screams.

What could he want with me now?

He comes bursting through the door as I make eye contact with my feet. My knees shake slightly, and I mentally curse at myself for still showing fear at him. I should be used to this by now.

He barges through the door and glares at me. He wreaks of cigarette smoke and alcohol. That alone is enough to send shivers down my spine.

All I want to do is go to work.

"I told you to apply for another job." He says. His voice quiet and strangely calm.

But you know what they say?

Calm before the storm.

"B-but I am 18, and I already work part t-time!" I stutter out.

His eyes turn darker as he backhands me across the face, the ring on his finger imprinting my cheek as I stumble back from the impact.

"I don't care if you work part time! I am your Boss and you will do as I say!" He barks out.

Anger rises up inside me. I twist my right foot on the floor anxiously, in an attempt to relieve some of the anger now burning inside of me, but it's no use. I find myself talking before thinking.

"Why don't you get a real job? You're perfectly capable! You're a grown man, you aren't a child!" I yell. And immediately, I realize what I have just done.

I've just released that beast that lurks behind his eyes.

His hard knuckles make contact with my cheek. I fall back into the wall at the impact. He delivers a second punch, causing my to sprawl out onto the ground, panting for air. Blood drizzles out of the wound on my lip, and I find myself spitting blood.

"Remember your place, girl." He says coldly as he delivers a kick to my ribs, causing me to grunt in pain. Then, he just leaves.

He leaves his daughter on the floor to pick up the pieces of her broken life once more.

But how can one pick up the pieces of her life when the shards cut you every time you try to put it back together again?

I wearily stand up, gathering the little strength I had left. I wash my face, and cover up the wounds and bruises on my face with makeup. However, I found that the bruises were so dark, that the makeup could only fade them. I sucked in a breath as I rummaged through my tiny clothing rack and pulled my restaurant uniform on. Tears sting my eyes, as I try to wipe them away.

C'mon, cheer up. It's time for work, meaning you get to see Shontell. I think, trying to get it together.

And with that, I softly walk through the house, and escape out the back door. I walk down the bleak gray streets, trying to ignore the pain. Finally, I round the corner and walk into the small, run down restaurant that has been more of a home than my own.

I push open the doors, and walk back into the kitchen.

"Hey Dakota!" Shontell chirps happily as she skips to my side.

I smile at my friend's joyful attitude. I've always admired her for that.

Shontell wore her black hair in a messy bun, and as usual, her chocolatey brow skin looked flawless. And to top off her outwardly beauty, she also contained inwardly beauty, too. She was kind, gentle, and understanding. She has supported me through all my hardships. Exactly the type of friend I need.

Exactly the type of friend everyone needs.

"Hi Shontell." I say.

She hugs me and I wince.

She pulls back with worry etched in her large light brown eyes.

"He did it again, didn't he?" She says, a look of worry on her face.

I look down at my feet. "Yeah..."

She sighs. "Are you sure you don't want me to tell-"

"I'm sure." I reply, cutting her off.

Shontell understands. She had an abusive boyfriend a couple years ago, so she understands where I am coming from. She knows that my dad beats me sometimes, but she doesn't exactly know that he's the leader of a very large, well known gang.

"Well, the moment you give me the okay, I will march in there and kick him to next year." She replies. Shontell is a strong young woman, she is fearless and isn't afraid to run into danger to protect someone she cares about. She is very admirable.

I smile. "Thank you, Shontell."

The day passes as Shontell serves a few customers. I was never good at being a waitress, due to my constant fear of men. Of course, I didn't tell Shontell that, I just made up some silly excuse so now I'm stuck in the kitchen, making salads and giving the cook the orders.

But I was just about to get the biggest surprise of my life.

Because Shontell came in, later that evening, flustered.

"Are you okay?" I ask her.

She grumbles and stomps her foot.

"You're taking table three's orders." She says.

"What? Why?" I ask, not very happy about this.

"They're so rude! Hot, but rude!" Shontell exclaims.

Great.

I can do this.

It's just one table.

Little did I know, that my life was going to be changed forever. Little did I know, that by serving that table, my life would be impacted in ways I could never imagine.