Wronged

By @Kconway
Wronged

Tattoos that people are born with determine who they belong with. Anna Cardale has recently escaped a horrifying past from her father. She has no desire to find her potential soulmate. In fact, she despises love. ...Until she actually finds him.

Chapter 3

• 3 •

– Anna’s POV –

Before being taken away from my old house in Raygus, I often thought about death. At least, more than I do now. I welcomed the idea of a pitch blackness surrounding me. And honestly, I didn’t care what happened after death. I just wanted my current life to end. 

There could be fire everywhere, or white clouds with people dressed in white gowns scattered in the air. There could be absolutely nothing except for that blackness, and I wouldn’t of cared. Hell, even reincarnation didn’t sound like a bad thing. 

But after I got the treatment I needed from medical and mental health doctors, I took it all into a different perspective. The finality of death makes sure that you take the easy way out. You don’t get to try and fix things. You aren’t allowed to come back and say, “Never mind! I didn’t mean to die!” 

And that’s weak. Suicide is weak. Killing yourself is weak. Staying alive through it all is strong. I’m not a weak person. I hate giving in, into anything that I’m against. And I won’t hand over my life to something as stupid as pain and depression. 

I take a deep breath as I find my toiletries in my suitcase, my final bag to unpack, and take it into the add-on bathroom. It takes around forty-five minutes and fifty-two seconds to actually get it all situated. But then it’s my room. My bathroom. The color scheme and everything in it is me

My eye catches sight of the blade kept on the side, spared for when I need to switch it out on my razor. But I use it for multiple things…

I pull up my hoodie sleeves and glance down at my wrists, which are covered in white small dashed scars. I never cut deep enough to hit anything vital that won’t stop bleeding, but I do go in enough in order to feel something. I have to feel. And if pain is the only way to stop be from spiraling into a pit of numb darkness, then so be it. I refuse to go back to thinking weakly again. 

I pull my sleeves back down to conceal the marks and go back into my room, a small smile taking over my lips when I see my guitar. After school yesterday, I came into my room to find the instrument lying on its side. 

I sit on my bed and let the wooden Fender body rest on my lap, neck outstretched to the left, where my fingers graze the six rough steel strings. The guitar has and will always be my love. It’s the only thing that makes me happy. And I like keeping it to myself. It’s one of those things that no one can take away from me. Not even the government. 

I didn’t ask Ms. Morgan where it came from or if she got it for me. I didn’t even thank her. I just kept it with me all night, tuning it, playing it softly, and in general, just holding it. It gave me a sense of comfort. 

On my nightstand is my song journal. I grab it and open up to a new page- on the eighty-ninth page. I have songs of all sorts in here that I wrote in that basement. There was a cheap Schmidt guitar down there with me, and I taught myself how to play. Everyday I’d play it. The silence killed me, so I had to have something that provided sound other than my own voice. 

I jot down the events that occurred yesterday, like I always do when starting a new song. My lyrics copy my life and my life only. There isn’t a single word in here that doesn’t relate to true events. I guess it’s more of a diary than anything…just in musical form. 

A sigh emits from my lips after I finish taking notes, and I close the notebook and put it to the side. My fingers stroke the strings from E to E very slowly. I need to now figure out a chord progression to base it off of. 

Slowly, in four/four time, I finger pick the chords, Bm, A, G, and D (on the second time around) to create a bittersweet sound. It fit the mood of the lyrics perfectly. 

I softly sing a few words that pop up into my head, testing to see if they fit. 

“The teardrops run down,

And fall off her nose,

She cries in the dark,

Where nobody goes,

You can follow her tracks,

From her eyes to her chin,

Years upon years,

Of letting those demons win,

And her eyes tell a story,

Of anger and pain,

You think that she’s happy,

But just look again,

And the scars of her past,

Hidden under her clothes,

Are a roadmap to places,

That nobody knows,

Her smile is now painted,

She’s a master of disguise,

And you can see it all,

Just look into her eyes.”

I release a long breath that comes out wobbly and shaking. I don’t like how that all came from me so easily. Thinking into how it sounds, I don’t like the way it rhymes every two words. But I couldn’t help it. I softly sang those words without even thinking. It’s like all that comes to mind is pain. 

But it’s also as if I’m calling out for help with those last few words. And I do long for someone to help me. But I’m unloved. I can’t be helped. 

Just look into her eyes.

That’s all I’m asking for. I just want someone to see me. Not look at me, but actually see me…I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense, does it? I’m just a lost cause.

A knock at the door brings my attention to it, and I clear my throat, quickly throwing my notebook underneath the bed. Without permission, Ms. Morgan enters with a small smile. 

“Hey, lady.” She walks over to me and sits down on the bed. I hastily move away, and she sighs. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just heard the guitar.” She smiles. 

I nod. 

“You play?” 

“Yeah.”

“I used to. Before I started working as a doctor, of course. My schedule got a little too hectic to play.”

I raise a brow. What did she want? Surely she didn’t just come in to talk to me about her old days. No one just wants to talk to me. There’s always an ulterior motive. 

“Okay…” 

Ms. Morgan just smiles at me for another moment, not taking the hint of my cold stance. Obviously this is where Hayley received her oblivious trait. 

“You play beautifully. I just wanted to tell you that, and also that you should consider enrolling in the school’s music program. You could put that talent to amazing work,” she comments. 

I shrug. “I don’t like to play in front of people.”

She frowns. “That’s too bad. People would love what you just played.”

She listened to me sing

I glare at her. “No. They wouldn’t. Stop trying and stay out of my business. Either do that, or get rid of me already. It’s not like you’re planning on keeping me around anyway.”

Ms. Morgan looks at me with sullen eyes when I stand up, crossing my arms. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Anna. I brought you into my home knowing exactly what I was getting myself into.”

“Then why choose me?” I ask breathlessly and with a bitter laugh. “Why get yourself into this?” I gesture to myself. 

“Because the ones who had a good life always get chosen. People never give the girls and boys like you a chance.”

“And why do you think that is?” I scoff. 

She shrugs. “Because people are scared of different. Of the hurt ones. I’m not. I’m not lying when I say that I like you.”

I roll my eyes, not saying anything for a minute. Then I glance at the guitar, a little bit of frustration putting pressure on my chest. 

“So the guitar was just a bribery gift? To get me to succumb to you?” I ask harshly. Typical. Of course she’d do that. The ones who adopt get a look at the teen’s file. They know what I went through. Or, they think they do. Realistically, they’ll never understand exactly what I suffered from. It’s natural for them to try and suck up to you with something they know you love.

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What? No, of course not. I wasn’t the one who gave you the guitar.”

My face expresses confusion. “Then who did?” 

She shrugs. “The post man said it was dropped off by a friend of yours who wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

A hollow pit is dug into my stomach at her words, and I swallow once. I try to keep my fear and nerves under control before she says goodbye and something along the lines of, “I hope you can warm up to us. We want to be a family.” I shut my door and slump against it. 

No one knows about my love for the acoustic instrument apart from two people and the other wh*res my dad brought over all the time. Those two people are the devil himself and my brother. 

And only one of them has been chasing me from foster home to foster home. 

The other left me to suffer in the hands of the chaser. 

•••

A/N:

And so the haunting past is introduced…

These first three chapters are what I call “pilot chapters.” I usually have them all ready before I begin a book and post them each and hour apart. Idk why, it’s just my tradition.

So, with that said, I will try and update as frequently as possible!

Also, I know this chapter was short, but it’s the final pilot chapter, and I wanted to end on a cliffhanger-type thing. It contains one scene, but I feel that should press emphasis on the fact that this is an important part of the story.

More Aiden moments to come!

Xx

Comments On This Chapter

Like
Like Love Haha Wow Sad Angry
8
Comment 7 Comments

Similar Stories

Similar Titles