Abused & Unloved

Slash Party Wednesday

I hated this day, I mean— I despise every day of the week but today it was Slash Party Wednesday.

This was the day my parents got their leather whips and lacerated me until I was unconscious.

It's lots of fun, I promise.

I guess I shouldn't be complaining, Wednesday was the easiest day of the torturous week.

I gave a designation to each day of the week to remember how many painkillers I had to take pre and post battle.

There was Punch Face Monday, Kick Stomach Tuesday, Cut Arm Thursday, and last but not least Drown in the Toilet Friday.

My parents were very organized. One of those OCD types I guess.

Saturdays and Sundays were my days off. Not because my guardians were amiable and wanted to give me time to recover, but because they didn't come home till late, and by the time they did— I was asleep and they were plastered. The worst they'll do is weakly slap me across the face for a few quick giggles. I'm so accustomed to it by now, it hardly stirs me.

My parents named me Jessica after that famous singer from the nineties. I guess they expected way too much from me, but I was just Jessica. Jessica Cortez. I had honey toned skin, wavy dark brown hair, and light brown eyes. I was average height, standing at five six, and relatively skinny.

You could say I'm abused, or you could be like other arrogant assholes and say I'm just "getting the discipline I deserve."

My mother doesn't really call it abuse, she calls it teaching. Most of the time I call her a fucking psycho, but who am I to have a say?

I have to commend her, at least she's not tedious. She's insanely imaginative, and she always has a great excuse for why she does what she does.

She calls a beating a lesson, a scar a reminder, and blood is "liquid from the weak."

She says she wants me to learn how to be perfect, but perfect is tethered to perception. What she finds wonderful and beautiful is usually terrible and painful for me. I can never be perfect in her eyes unless I do exactly what she wants, and how can I do that unless I'm some kind of psychic? Perfection is impossible, but she knows this of course.

Even if I had gone through the day doing everything that was asked of me, it still wouldn't be enough. It's never enough for her, for them.

They always make sure I know that, and they also give me tips on how to be better. Sometimes they're really helpful: "Stop breathing..."

That was my favorite one, very obliging. But there are many others: "Don't slouch..." and, "Don't make faces.." or another favorite, "Stop living..."

They may think I'm not listening but I certainly am.

In a completely real and unsarcastic manner, I try. I mean I really try. I want to be accepted and loved by my family— despite them being horrible people who criticize and belittle me. All I want is for them to be pleased and satisfied with me. But if there's anything I have learned from this cruel world and the dreadful people I live with, it's that there is no perfect world.

At least not one that I'll ever get to see.

My younger sister is the dearest, the darling. This is in no way a witticism— I'm not joking. My little sister is not conscious of my beatings or punishments and my parents do not lay a hand on her. She is the apple of their eye.

Every time my parents wrap up their disciplinary sessions, even if I'm unconscious, they throw me in the tub filled with warm water and clean me up.

Honestly they deserve an award. I don't know how they do it. Parents of the year. The chore of having to carry their dead weight, numbed adolescent.

After the clean up I am covered in an inordinate amount of makeup to hide the evidence.

I do own a lot of makeup. It is fairly a beauty guru's dream, but no beauty queen would want to be me. No eye-shadow, or eyeliner; just loads of foundation and concealer.

That's about it.

I don't want to sound like a complete bitch. Yeah, life sucks but others have it worse right? At least I'm not dying from some incurable disease.

Other than depression.

Evidently, I'm grateful for the few good things I have. At least I have a personality and a chance at making it to Heaven or whatever possible pleasant afterlife there is.

My parents are certainly doomed to a fiery inferno type of hell. Maybe whoever rules their hell at least lets them have some makeup to cover it up.

Thankfully my sister leads a good life, and though she can be a bit narcissistic, clueless, and bratty— I love her, and I would protect her with every microfiber in my body. She's the only decent thing in my world.

My parents aren't rich, they don't shower her with gifts galore, this isn't riches and rags. She's not the ugly spoiled stepsister while I'm the poor, beaten, enslaved Cinderella. But she does have things to be proud of; from what I can tell she has great friends, amazing— yet extremely phony— parents, and a little boyfriend. A fling. She really didn't need a boyfriend and I couldn't understand for the life of me why she had one. She was basically a two year old and in my opinion she needed to simmer down but if I were to ever say that to her face she'd probably spit out a snitch faster than Harry Potter.

Ha.

I couldn't resent her for not knowing about my adversities and not understanding, because most of the time she was oblivious when it came to problems that weren't her own. I only wished she knew that every time she blabbed on me, even if it was with good intentions, she was making my life fall apart faster than a Hidden Nature Valley Granola Bar.

She can be extremely frustrating and she also whines and pouts excessively, but without her I probably wouldn't even be alive right now.

No, she does not stand there and protect me. She doesn't charge towards my lunatic parents with a sword and shield avenging me. But if I died she would notice and her theatrical persona would presumably do something stupid and dramatic landing my parents in jail.

Or she could just start to hate them which would just break the lump of coal they call hearts.

Because of this my parents are more careful, and it keeps them from completely kicking my bucket.

Do I want to die? I'm not really sure I do. If I am being completely honest, the dark and unspeakable thought of suicide has reared my mind, but I guess I've just been waiting. I'm not entirely sure what I've been waiting for, but I know that something better is out there. I know my destiny wasn't to simply entertain these demons by being their play toy for a few years before throwing in the white towel. I will be rewarded for my strength and perseverance one day.

Hopefully.

There is so much earth out there that I haven't seen, it would be really shitty, and incredibly selfish if I just gave up fighting when I know there's a bigger plan I have to follow.

Definitely.