The Mafia Princess’ Seven Overprotective Brothers Novel – Perched on the roof of my small run down house, my gaze was fixed on a single star, whose brightness seemed to dominate among the vast multitude of glowing stars, that graced the endless sea of the magnificent night sky. The darkness of the night appears to be the only thing left in my life and it sometimes feels as if it, too, is slipping away from me, just as everything else has. This is the one time I can let my thoughts run wild and free, when I can allow them to completely consume me because my thoughts are my sanctuary. I had found solace in them for years.
Whenever I’m alone, I let myself be entirely devoured by them, as the silence that accompanies it allows me to seek peace. I mean, there’s nothing like a little alone time to appreciate my own company. Every time I look up at the eternal and ceaseless sea of stars, I couldn’t help but try to assure myself that no matter how much darkness expands in the sky, light will always find a way to revolt, and the black sky will always turn blue. But I’m afraid that I was succumbing to this delusion, a false sense of hope, that someday a light will appear for me, which will rescue me from the darkness of my life. “You are a monster Lesley—” My own mother thinks I am a monster, I tried to hopelessly fool myself expecting her to get rid of that notion, but she’ll never see me anything more than that, an inhuman monster.
If I really am a monster, No doubt that I’m doing a pretty shitty job at it, ….especially compared to my own mother. Thoughts, they say, are the shadows of our emotions and mine were empty, dark and depressing. A traitorous tear rolled down my cheek as I reflected over my tormented and abusive existence. Tears, the concept with which I’ve gotten far too conversant for my liking. Given the amount of them that I’ve already shed, I’m surprised that they hadn’t completely drained out by now. With time I’ve managed to learn how not to cry my heart out, especially since I discovered the meaning of ‘suck it up.’ Bottling up those unwarranted and useless emotions that keep fussing about the bitterness of my circumstances, helped me toughen up my overly sensitive soul.
Now there are no more expectations left, just plain hatred. However, there are times when I just simply can’t prevent them from falling out. They are like a small rebellious army that retaliates more ferociously when I try my best to subdue them. Life would have been so much easier if feelings had an off switch. If only I hadn’t let their words affect me to the extent that they did, I could have avoided the years of pain and heartbreak that came with the expectations I had as a child. My heart would have been spared from the years of misery that had been resulted from the anticipation of love and care. All my life, I have only ever wished for them to love me and accept me as their daughter, no matter how flawed they think I was. I wanted to be their perfect daughter but instead I only ever got hate.
Eventually as I grew older, I allowed numbness to take over the pit of emptiness in my heart, where I have always been alone, all by myself, having lost all hope of someone coming to rescue me. I was 6-years old, when I got my first hit. The day has been etched in my brain as if it had just happened yesterday. The helplessness I felt, the pain I endured, the cries I screamed; all of it. Gerard came into my life when I was about 5 years old. Della told me that he was my father and I was happy to finally have a father after so many years of wanting one. It was as if I got an early Christmas present, which soon turned into my nightmare. But I suppose having a child doesn’t automatically make one a good father. Instead of loving me, he called me derogatory names. Instead of playing with me he would slap me because my presence bothered him too much.
It progressed from a few occasional slaps, shoving, hair pulling, name-calling to full-fledged beatings. I was ten years old when I received my first thorough beating. My father whipped me with his belt until I passed out. And my mother never stopped him, she didn’t even bat an eye when I got beat and instead laughed at me, telling me how I deserved it all. Eventually her ignorance turned into an abuse itself. So, I just stopped referring to them as my Mom and Dad. I believed her when she said that I would never be loved and I will always be unwanted and hated. I still do— I wanted to escape my reality, and I tried, but it only ended up in breaking me completely. It was then I realised that my parents had shackles on me, bounding me to my never ending doom of misery which I quit trying to escape. As I turned 12, I had to get a job because we didn’t have enough money to pay for food and bills.
My parents didn’t want spend there money on me, and yet, they exploited my money to buy more drugs and alcohol, and the food was solely for their own consumption. I was only permitted to eat once every two or three days in order to keep me; ‘their punch-bag’ alive. Growing up I had to fend for myself because there was nobody else who was willing to do it for me. So after I got a job, I began putting a little money aside to buy myself some food and other basic necessities. Chapter 2 It would just be an apple or a protein bar a day, but, having grown used to going without food, I became accustomed to not being hungry for days at a time. And due to the days of starvation that I endured, my body had just stopped growing. My bones were disfigured and virtually jutting out, not to mention, even my rib cage was visible through my skin, making me look like a child for a 15-year-old. However, all of that was hidden beneath the hundreds of scars and bruises that littered my skin.
Anyways, it’s 5 a.m. right now, and I’m sitting on the roof of the cabin where we live. I have been sitting on the roof since 2 a.m., after waking up from passing out from yet another vicious beating. I had applied bandages to my wounds and then took pain killers, but I couldn’t get any sleep. My entire body was aching. It wasn’t the most brutal beating I’d ever received, but it wasn’t any less painful. My ribs are definitely bruised from all of the direct hits that they received, and I believe that I may have a sprained shoulder. The skin on my stomach was blistered and peeling off as a result of the boiling water my mother poured on me, and my back was still sore from last night’s whipping. But I’m used to these sufferings. An unconscious groan left my mouth, as I recalled that I had a school to attend. It begins at 7:30 a.m. and is a half-hour walk from home to the bus stop. Since I couldn’t afford skipping school, which would most certainly lead to another beating, I slowly managed to stand up amidst the pain and limped my way inside to the bathroom, as I breathed heavily.
I didn’t have to worry about getting into another encounter with Della or Gerard because they both left after beating me and won’t be returning home until later. As I entered the bathroom, I removed my bloody and torn clothes, and turned on the tap of the shower on which instantly supplied me with water. The warm water burned the bruises and burns I received from today’s beating. I turned the faucet off after letting the water wash away any residual soap and blood from my body, cutting off the soothing warmth of the water. Drying off, I turned around to face the mirror. There stood a girl around 5 feet 4 inches tall, her light auburn hair cascading down to her lower back and her dull lifeless blue eyes were staring right back at me. Her face was covered in blue and black bruises from the blows which were directed towards her, and her neck had fingerprints from being strangled. A bruise on her shoulder was becoming visibly obvious, affirming the theory of being strained, but her ribs and stomach were the worst.