Got To Love Me To Hate Me

A Chapter by smith.courtney66

Chapter One: All Grown Up

Twelve years she has felt these, strange pool of emotions, twelve years she spent searching for an answer for why they were there. She couldn’t understand it, no matter how hard she tried. It was completely mental. Though, every time she even got close to an answer, it would always lead her to the death angel that abandoned her twelve years ago. The death angel named, Liam. She couldn’t accept that he left because he hated her, she couldn’t accept the fact that he was gone. He was her best friend. At least… he was anyway. For the past twelve years, she had felt all of these, strange spasms of pain and they would come from her left wrist. It wouldn’t come from her right wrist only her left. That was what left her confused about the whole thing. It was utterly mental! Then after her pain spasms, she would feel it threw the rest of her body, but only after that one wrist gave her pain first. She couldn’t sleep at night. She could only get two hours of rest at the most. Though the other thing that puzzled her was the fact that the most basic feeling she ever felt was sorrow, and it wasn’t her own. She couldn’t even feel happy anymore! Though mostly because she had changed. Blaire Brace wasn’t the four-year-old people still imagined her to be. She was once happy, smiling, and laughing everything away. Many told her that she rubbed off on people.

Now, Blaire was cold, distant and even though she was popular, she was told mean. Everyone usually looked up to Blaire. The teachers said she was a good role model. Though, in truth she knew it wasn’t the case. The only reason she was a good role model was because she was a school athlete and she had good grades. They didn’t care about her life or her. They didn’t care if her father was beating her, they didn’t even pay attention! The only thing that they cared about was their stupid reputation. Then again, to know that her father was beating her they would have to look underneath the underneath. She didn’t show it in her attitude; she was mostly quiet all the time. She didn’t show it in her academic record, she made straight A’s. She didn’t show in the lacrosse team, she always did her best. All in all, she didn’t let anyone see her weakness. She never let anyone close enough to show it. At the age of five, Blaire saw her father strike her mother, and tried to stop it from happening. She couldn’t, knocking herself onto the floor. Though, that was what her father told her anyway. Her mother was dead, and days after her death she would dream about… large puddles of blood and a single white rose. She couldn’t decipher the coded dreams and soon enough, gave it up.

Blaire then told the death angel, and in thus he left. She couldn’t believe he was truly gone, she couldn’t accept it. She didn’t want to accept it. Ultimately, she spent the past twelve years waiting for someone that wasn’t going to come back. She then began to lose her belief in angels. Every time she thought of Liam, she would shake it off. She refused to let herself weaken over him. She was just plain heartbroken and then she always felt betrayal. Though, she felt betrayed from the very beginning, for she found out the angel was here for her soul. He was here to kill her.

“Blaire get down here!” she heard her father bellow. She sighed and then the (now) sixteen year old stood as if she heard nothing. She put her hair in her pony-tail, letting her long, slick black hair swing from side-to-side, her pure, light blue eyes absent with meaning. She was the average height for a woman, maybe over little, and had creamy tan skin, she sported a pair of tight, hip hugging, boot cut jean and a black tan ktop. She stood there for a moment, inhaling and exhaling deeply, preparing herself for the beating about to come. Then she headed down to meet her father. On the outside of her door, there was her book bag, pure black and various pockets. She threw the strap over her right shoulder, carrying it down stairs. Placing the bag down on the outside of the kitchen, she ventured in to see was her dad wanted. Turning, the door of the kitchen she saw him standing in the kitchen with shaky legs (obviously drunk) and holding a nearly empty Vodka bottle. She could see the darkened blond hair of his and his lightened almond eyes that were paired with dark blue bags that dwelled under his eyes.

Immediately he sauntered over to her and slapped her to the floor. The room was somewhat deadly in silent. Her eyes moved up to meet his, sadness, pain, and solace were all the emotions he found looking at her. Immediately, he raged and kicked her in the stomach. She gasped out. “When I get up I expect breakfast!” he raged. She smiled a bloody smile and glanced up at her dad.

“You’re too drunk to eat it anyway.”

“Why you-” he raged again, slapping her across the cheek. With that she stood up and glared at him.

“Go take a shower dad. You stink.” With that she retrieved her bookbag and threw it over her shoulder as she walked out of the house, and on her way to the school. Her cheek was stinging with pain, but she refused to touch it. She refused to be weak.

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