Page 2 of The Lost Ones

I slowly peel off my clothes, being careful of my ribs and newly bruised cheek, and look myself over in the mirror.

My Raven black hair is hanging in a tangled mess down my back as dull grey eyes stare blankly back at me. It's been a long time since I saw a spark of life in them. I have what would be an hourglass figure but due to lack of food, my waist is too small, and my face is beginning to look too thin, my cheekbones sticking out just a bit too far to be considered attractive. My ribs are still purple and black from the rage my mother flew into a couple of days ago and to add to it my cheek and eye are now swollen and turning a lovely shade of deep purple.

Awesome.

These things don't keep my attention for long though as I trace my fingers lightly across the tattooed words on the side unmarked by bruises. I read them again searching for strength; ‘ You never know how strongyou are until being strong is your only choice’. The words appeared when I was nine, exactly one week before my mother first hit me. I have found more strength in these words over the years than I have in anything else.

My hand moves to the small blue and green swallow at the very top of my thigh, normally covered by the band of my underwear. This is the newest one to appear. It appeared about two months ago on my eighteenth birthday. Two days later my boyfriend, who I thought I loved despite all his flaws, hit me so hard I was knocked unconscious. He'd pushed me and hit me before but never enough to leave a mark and always played it off as a joke.

I was so starved for human interaction and companionship that I ignored the warning signs and forced myself to believe that whenever it happened it was an accident. If I couldn't convince myself that it was then I told myself that it was my fault anyway.

I should do better, be better.

He lost his shit that night because I didn’t get him a beer quick enough. We hadn’t been together long and I’m glad now that I never had sex with him. I don’t know why it makes the situation better but for me, it just does.

I’m by no means a virgin, I just wasn't ready to have sex with him, it didn’t feel right.

He got so terrifyingly angry all because I didn’t get him the damn beer as quick as he thought I should’ve. Something had happened with his business and it wasn’t good, which just meant he was in a volatile mood. He wrapped his hand around my throat and pinned me up against the wall making my breath come out in short gasps. All the while shouting obscenities at me before he threw me roughly onto the floor. I tried to get back up but he punched me so hard that I passed out.

When I awoke, I was sprawled out on his front lawn next to the trash cans, thrown out like garbage. I slowly pulled my stiff and aching body up off the hard ground. My head was pounding with pain but thankfully I was still fully clothed with nothing out of place so at least there was that. I painfully slowly made my way back to my house.

I never told him where I lived, ironically, I didn't want to drag him into my own problems and subject him to my mother. The beatings I would have suffered if I had brought him back to the house would've been too bad to even think about anyway so, it was better for everybody if he didn't know.

In those moments walking home beaten and bruised because of him, I was so thankful that I never told him and swore to myself that this was it. I wasn't going to go back; I was done with him.

I couldn’t free myself from my mother yet, but I could free myself from him, so I did. It was then that I realised what the swallow and the script inscribed on my thigh meant; ‘Sometimes you have to forget what you thought you wanted and remember what you deserve’.

I need to believe that. I have to believe that after everything he put me through, everything that my mother puts me through that I do NOT deserve it.

That tattoo reminds me when I forget.

Maybe I should explain the whole appearing tattoo thing. There’s a small percentage of the population that when they are about to go through a key event in their lives, good or bad, the kind of event that affects you in such a profound way, that it leaves an imprint on your soul, a tattoo appears on you. It could just be a picture, a quote or both. Whatever shows up on your skin gives you a small clue as to what the coming key event will be.

When the tattoo appears, you get a brief burning sensation wherever it shows up. I say brief but in all honesty it hurts like a bitch for the brief time it takes to appear.

Everyone knows that this happens to a small percentage of the population but very few members of that small percentage actually show their Imprint Tattoos off or tell anyone that it happens to them. Imprint Tattoos are very personal. My knowledge on them is extremely limited, I only know the small amount that we are taught in school as part of the general curriculum and that’s it. It’s not like I had anyone I could ask either. I shudder to think what would have happened if I’d told my mom. I’m forever grateful to nine-year-old me for listening to her instincts on that one and not mentioning it.

What I do know is that most people's tattoos only start to appear after their sixteenth birthday. That's not to say that the minute a person turns sixteen they instantly get a tattoo foretelling them of a key event. Some people wait years before they get one, but I have never heard about someone getting one before they turn sixteen.

Which makes me an anomalybecause my first Imprint Tattoo showed up when I was only nine. I sigh heavily sweeping my hair over my shoulder and giving my shadow filled grey eyes one last glance before stepping into the shower and quickly washing my tired and aching body.

I’m exhausted, it’s already eleven at night and I have school tomorrow. The first day of senior year and what a way to start, covered in bruises and bone tired. The bruise on my face I can cover fairly easily with foundation. I’ve had to do it, what feels like a million times before so I’m a pro at it now. Hopefully by tomorrow morning the swelling will have gone down, not that anyone is close enough to me to notice any sort of distortion to my face.

I keep to myself and have no friends. I have too many secrets and my life is too fucked up to maintain any semblance of a relationship; I can't bring someone else into the mess that is my life. I tried to once before with the ex and look how that turned out.

It doesn’t really matter anyway because as soon as I turn eighteen and graduate, I'm leaving. I can make friends then, maybe.

I slip on some sleep shorts and a tank before crawling under my thin blue comforter. Fortunately since it's the south and it’s the end of August, I won't need to wear extra layers to bed for a while longer.

I lay still and listen to the sounds of the house, making sure that what I hear is the usual creaking and groaning and not my mother coming up the stairs. Whenever she comes up to use the bathroom, she always uses it as a ‘kill two birds with one stone situation’ and I just can't take any more pain today. I’m drained, completely and utterly drained. I need to try and regain some strength back if I want to get through school tomorrow.

Once I’m satisfied it’s just the normal sounds, I slowly allow myself to drift into a restless and nightmare filled sleep. It’s the same every night, the nightmares never leave me.

Chapter Two

Ishoot straight up in bed, my heart pounding from yet another nightmare. I can never quite grasp a hold of the remnants long enough to fully remember before the nightmare drifts away completely. Once my heartbeat has finally calmed, I glance over at my battered alarm clock and groan when I see the time.

Five am.