The alphas damaged mate

Caution: sensitive content - this chapter contains scenes of child abuse. SUMMER, GET HERE NOW! I hear my father bellow from the living room, terrified I go through from the kitchen where I had been washing up. That is my life here, cooking, cleaning, and being abused. I am 17 years old and have never been to school or left the house. In the living room, my father is stood near the sofa, and my two older brothers are on the sofa watching tv. My father immediately turns to me as I walk into the room and shouts, “What’s this here? Why are there crumbs on the floor?” Shaking, I tell him I hoovered the carpet, but Lucian was eating biscuits without a plate again. “DON’T BLAME YOUR BROTHER,” my father shouts. “YOU SHOULD HAVE GOT THE HOOVER OUT AS SOON AS HE HAD FINISHED. You’re just a lazy b***h, just like your mother was.” My father started to take his belt off, seeing this I went to run upstairs, but he grabbed my arm and threw me to the floor, then started to hit me with the belt over and over, all over my back and legs. I’m lying there screaming and crying for him to stop, for someone to help me, but I knew they wouldn’t, nobody ever did, they just continued watching tv like nothing was happening. When my father was finished with the belt, he kicked me hard in the stomach, then grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to my feet and said, “Now get back to the kitchen. I want dinner ready in 30 minutes.” As I am making dinner, 18-year-old Lucian and 20-year-old LJ, short for Lucifer Junior, come into the kitchen, both annoyed that my screaming and crying had made it difficult for them to hear the tv. They are both over 6ft tall and well built with blonde hair, blue eyes, and naturally tanned skin, they take after their father and are his pride and joy and very popular. They approach behind me, and LJ asks with a sneer, “What are you making, Misfit?” That’s their nickname for me because at 5ft 5 with pale skin, brunette hair, and brown eyes, I look nothing like my family. I tell them that I am cooking sausages, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and onion gravy with apple crumble and ice cream for dessert. “Sounds good,” says Lucian, “don’t expect any left for you.” “Make sure you don’t burn the sausages again,” sneers LJ, “or you know what will happen.” The last time that happened, I was seven. I have been made to do all the cooking since I was five, and if anything is burned or not to their liking, I get a beating. When the food is ready, I lay it all out on the table, then start cleaning the kitchen while they eat, hoping there will be something left for me. That’s the only food I get leftovers. Once they have finished, my brothers go out, and my father retreats to the sofa with a beer. As I clear the table, I see all that is left is a single sausage that will be all I will get to eat tonight. All I have had today is a single rasher of bacon and half a tomato for breakfast that was left from the full English they have every morning. The last time I had more than leftovers to eat, I was four years old. My father had caught me with the biscuit tin and beat me so hard I was left unconscious on the kitchen floor. After I have finished cleaning up, I go upstairs to my room. It’s a very small and basic room. The walls are plain and dirty, the floor is bare, and the window is boarded up. The only light in the room comes from a ceiling light with no shade. There’s an old rusted metal frame single bed with an old lumpy mattress, an itchy blanket, and a flat pillow. There’s an old chest of drawers on the wall opposite the bed, and nothing else. I go to the chest of drawers for a clean set of clothes. I don’t have much clothing, mostly a couple of t-shirts, a couple of pairs of joggers, and a jumper. They are all items my brothers have grown out of. I have no underwear, no socks or shoes, and no coat because my father says I don’t need them as I don’t leave the house anyway. I grab a t-shirt and a pair of joggers and go through to the bathroom to have a shower. The bathroom is full of men’s toiletries, but all I am allowed to use is a basic bar of soap and an old, worn toothbrush. I take my clothes off and can see myself in the mirror. I am very underweight, to the point that I can see my bones protruding, and my entire body is covered in cuts, bruises, and scars. I climb into the shower and switch it on, then start washing. The water and soap sting as it reaches the wounds, but I have to hurry. If I take longer than five minutes, I will get a beating for wasting water. I finish up and get dried and dressed. As I am leaving the bathroom, I hear my father stumbling up the stairs, obviously drunk again. In a panic, I rush to my room, close the door, and go over to the bed where I cower in the corner, hugging my knees to me, hoping tonight will be different, but that hope dwindles as I hear his footsteps approach my room and stop outside my door, then see the door handle start to turn. The door opens, and my father steps in, looks at me, snares in disgust, and says, “No point trying to hide yourself. You are mine to do what I want with. Nobody even knows you exist and would never want you if they did.” He then grabs my ankles and yanks me down the bed, pulls my joggers off, and forces himself on me. This has been happening every time he gets drunk since I was ten. I don’t scream or struggle anymore because it only makes it worse, and nobody ever hears my screams anyway. When he is finished, he pulls his jeans back up and leaves, never saying anything, just goes back to his drinking. I just pull my joggers back up, curl up in a ball, and cry. This is the only life I have ever known. My mother died when I was two. I don’t remember her and have never met anyone else. I am not allowed to leave the house, open the door, or use the phone, and if anyone visits, I am locked in my room and made to stay quiet.