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Jessica'S POV

Sitting on the roof of my old, run-down house, looking at the endless sea of stars in the black sky, thinking of my life, what my purpose is in life. I have no family, no friends, and hell, not even pets. I have no one, nothing, nothing to lose, nothing to hope for. I'm simply surviving, not living. I'm breathing, but I feel dead.

If only feelings had an off switch. If only I could block out the hurtful words, the thoughts, and the feelings. I try to tell myself that it's not true, all the words, all the pain, that it's a chapter and it will pass. But I guess that's a lie; I have been lying to myself. This chapter is not passing. All my life I have been in the same chapter, over and over again; my life is a repeating record; every day is the same.

But I learnt to block it out, to numb the pain away. Now, now numbness is all I ever feel. It helps with the words, thoughts, feelings and everything. I learnt something when I was 9 years old. I would always cry when my parents would start hitting me, but I realised something: that if I cry or mope around, nothing would change, nothing. The kicking, punching, slapping, whipping and degrading won't stop, nor will it ever stop.

They love when I cry, when I beg, but nothing ever works; it goes in one ear and out the other. I haven't cried since I was 10 years old. Crying won't solve my problems; it won't do anything. So I just stopped; I bottle everything up.

I don't burden anyone with my problems or what goes on at home. I know they won't do anything; they will pity me, and if there is one thing I hate most in life, it's pity. I don't want people to pity me; I don't need anything from anyone. There is God. God gives me faith, hope, love, everything. I know he will help me. He kept me going till now for a reason.

I always wanted one thing as a little, little girl. I wanted them to love me. I wanted them to protect me and care for me. I wanted her to help me with my hair and clothes or simply advise me in life. I wanted him to call me his little princess, to chase away boys, and to protect me from bullies. But we don't get everything we want. Because it turned out they became my biggest bullies, I needed protection from them. They became the monsters from under the bed that you need protection from. They ruined me. He ruined me; she ruined me. Both of them broke me, shattered me, and broke me into a million pieces that can't be put together.

I always wondered what I did wrong, what I did for them to hate me, to harm me, to despise me that much. But I always came up with nothing. I was a kid who could barely stand, so I never came up with an answer.

It's currently 4:00 in the morning, and I need to go make my stepfather breakfast and clean the house, or else I will get my daily dosage of love (note the sarcasm). With that thought in mind, I got up and stretched my sore muscles. Obviously that was a mistake as I bent over in pain. Yesterday I came 10 mins late from work, and he whipped my back and dislocated my knee. I don't even know how I'm walking right now, but I guess you could say I'm used to it, the pain.

I walked to my room, which is basically the attic. My room consists of a really thin mattress, a thin blanket, no pillow, and a chair in the corner of the room where I keep my stuff. I went to the broken mirror in the bathroom and lifted my shirt just over my ribs. My stomach has burn marks, open flesh, and bruises. My stomach is a mixture of black, blue, purple, yellow, and green. One thing I hate when looking at my stomach is the word my mom (if you can even call her that) carved there. The word "whore" is carved in the middle of my stomach.  She carved it with a small pocket knife when I came late from school for doing a project with a boy.

I don't even know how she found out. I don't dwell on the thought anymore and start dressing my wounds and sanitising the cuts with rubbing alcohol and big white antiseptic bandages. After that I put on my clothes.

I make sure to cover the bruises on my face and hands with foundation. Don't want anybody knowing.

After I finished, I stood and looked at myself in the mirror. My green-blue eyes hold no life; they are dull, lifeless, with no shine in them whatsoever. They used to be so bright, full of life and happiness, but now they are dead; there is nothing in them, and they look so empty. My face is too thin and pale from the little food and dehydration. My clothes are too big and baggy because I'm too thin. Overall I'm not the most appealing to look at.

When I finish, I make my way downstairs to start on breakfast. I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge and take the ingredients out. I make four pieces of toasted toast, two with fried eggs and the other two with strawberry jam, with half an avocado on the side. I put the plate on the table and open the fridge to take out a beer. The second I put the bottle down, I hear loud, booming footsteps alerting me he's coming.

I stand in the corner in the kitchen and keep my head down. It's one of the rules I have to follow, or else I get punished.

He makes his way inside, sits on the stool, and starts eating. Next thing I know, a fist is being thrown in my face. He punches me in the face, and I feel the familiar taste of metal in my mouth. He busted my lip when it just healed. Another punch is thrown, and he says, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT, YOU FUCKING WHORE???"

"T-toast s-sir." I stutter, looking at the floor.

Another rule is that I call him 'sir' and never make eye contact; he considers it disrespectful.

It looks like he didn't like that answer, as he threw me on the floor and started kicking my stomach.

This went on for 1 hour, and when he finally had finished, I could barely keep my eyes open.

"That's what you get, you filthy bitch." He spat.

I saw him through blurry vision pick up his car keys and leave, slamming the door on his way.

Slowly I stand up with the support of the wall and make my way to my room. I open the door and go inside. I reapply my foundation to cover the new bruises. I then eat a small granola bar from the kitchen and take two painkillers for my ribs because he broke three, I think.

I then make my way outside to leave for work. I close the door and lock it behind me. I work as a waitress in this really cute popular cafe that's 30 mins away. I have been working there for 2 years, and the owners are really sweet and treat me as their own.

Once I reach the cafe, I open the door, and the smell of freshly baked goods and coffee fills my nose. I bid Martha and Jerry, the owners, good morning and move to put my stuff away. I hear the bell above the door jingle, indicating someone came. I put on my apron and take my small notebook and pen and head outside to start working. Let the day begin.