Jimin’s runaway daughter. pt.3
Warning: Sensitive Content (mentions of abuse; read at own risk)
Dad went to work early this morning and so did mum, I was left alone in the house and I was actually glad to be by myself - with no one else around me. Now, I wouldn’t mind if it were dad keeping me company, but his schedules were always so full that it was rare for me to be home with him and only him. Usually, it’d be mum and I here - she’d finish work at your regular five o’clock and be home by six. That’s the time I dreaded the most, nothing’s worse than being home with her, alone. Dad never gets back until late, if he even bothers returning at all for the night. Sometime’s he’d practice until ungodly hours and just end up staying with his members at the dorm because he didn’t want to come back at four in the morning and wake us all up. I’d see him less during comeback times because he’d be so busy, not that he’s not busy near enough all year round but I could end up going days without seeing him because he just couldn’t find the time to stay at home. For that, I missed him a lot and that was also the reason why he would never believe me when I say that mum hates me.
Sometimes it’d get really lonely, I’m homeschooled because my mother decided it was best for me to stay and learn from home so that I wouldn’t attract unnecessary attention that could damage dad’s reputation, but really she only started keeping me away from the outside world when she started beating me, the real reason why she doesn’t want me out there was because of the injuries I would have, which would of course attract attention. My mother was awful, but I can’t deny that she’s smart. She’d only hit me if she knew dad wasn’t coming up that night, so she doesn’t end up risking being caught.
The dreaded time of day was inching closer and closer by the second, mum was going to be home any minute now and it’d be the first time I was alone with her since running away yesterday. I remembered her words, or more so ‘threats’ so clearly, the amount of venom I felt from her voice surprised me because I didn’t die then and there after she had whispered in my ear. She beats me so badly, sometimes I wonder why she doesn’t just kill me altogether. Why she doesn’t just take out a knife from the kitchen drawer and aim it directly at my heart. I assume that the pain the knife would bring, would be easier to handle than the constant punches, the kicks, the hair pulling and the scratches. Because the aftermath of her beatings are mentally traumatising, but if she killed me with a knife, I’d be dead and wouldn’t even have to think about anything else after. If you can’t tell already, I’m obviously an optimistic person - please note my sarcasm. I used to be a bright child, people always thought I was a smaller version of my dad because of how much of a ‘sunshine’ I was, knowing that my father was part of the sunshine line of BTS. But when the day came where my mother told me she no longer loved me, I knew I had changed.
I was currently in the kitchen, cutting up some onions for tonight’s dinner as I heard my mum walk through the front door, with a few clicks of her heels as she took her shoes off to heavy footsteps coming my way. I held my breath as I heard her come closer, tears already brimming my eyes because I was so petrified of her.
“I’m home, bitch.” I turned slowly and faced her, but not once could I look her in the eyes, I was simply too afraid to do so. “I get back and you don’t even know how to greet me, did I not teach you your manners? Is this how it is after you’ve called me a bitch in front of your dad?” She taunted me, she knew very well where my breaking points were - because she’s my mother of course she’d know, and that’s what always gives her the upper hand.
“Welcome home mum.” I say as I placed the knife down on the side of the cutting board, walking over to her to greet her properly. I didn’t need her to tell dad that I was now being rude to her, she probably would anyway, but I didn’t want to risk the little chance I had of him even believing me.
I felt my cheek sting, she slapped me across my face and as I looked up at her - she showed no remorse. Instead, the devilish smile she wore tainted my life. It was an image that’d cause me to wake up because it haunted me in my nightmares, something that was so mentally scarring and no matter what it is I tried to do, or how hard I tried to remove that image, I couldn’t.
“Does it hurt, my child? I hope it does. I told you you’d be punished for what you’ve done, and here’s your punishment right now. You told your dad everything didn’t you? That I abuse you, that I don’t love you? It’s just too bad he’ll never believe you, isn’t it?” She hit my head after every single question she asked, her force stronger with every hit but I couldn’t retaliate. She kicked the back of my legs, causing me to tumble forwards. My knees hit the ground as I yelped.
“Don’t think for a second that you’re going to get away with this. Don’t bother screaming either, because no one will help you. Not even your own dad believes in your words and he’s not going to come home any time soon, so it’s just going to be me and you. Like the good old times, where I get to take my anger out on you because you’ve been a terrible daughter, and you can enjoy it.”
Her words didn’t quite end there, as she would beat me she would yell nasty names at me. Call me a useless child that she wish she would have aborted years ago. A child she shouldn’t have had, that dad doesn’t love me, that he’s only doing this because the fans would question him if anything would have ever happened to me. I didn’t want to believe in her words, but it made sense. Everything made sense. When she got tired, she left me there as she continued to finish off the cooking I had left. Was she mentally sane? I doubted her sanity, but then again - I was doubting my own. Knowing that she was done with me, I struggled my way into my room locking the door behind me. I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw all the cuts and bruises forming as I cried at my ugly self. Her beatings no longer hurt, like people would say - if something happens so much and so often, it becomes a regular routine that your body just gets use to and for me, the abuse was the regular routine that my body was accommodated to. The closer I looked at the injuries, the more I’m convinced that my mother was smart. All the areas that were hurt, they looked like injuries I would get from falling. She knew exactly what she was doing, and that was something I was afraid of. Because it’ll always be her word against mine, and nobody would listen to a child. A child who has a wild imagination like me.