Nightmares Made Flesh, Nikki Mitchell [best books to read for students .txt] 📗

For the protection of those I love (and a few that I dislike), all the names are changed in this account.

I was five when the nightmare began. I was sent from my mother to her aunt and uncle, Debra and Bobby. I didn't know why it was happening; I thought I had done something wrong, so it was killing me more than any other punishment she could have inflicted. Life was good there, I suppose, and I went home a little more than a year later.
That wasn't the true nightmare, though. The real nightmare continued years later. My mom began dating a man named Eric, and he was a very abusive person. I never let any of my friends over, for fear that they would see what happened at my house. I knew that it wasn't my fault, but I still felt that I had to stay at home and protect her. That's a terrible burden, I know now, for a six-year-old to bear. The worst part was that I was the only one that could strike any amount of compassion in Eric's heart when he started to hit my mom. I was the only one that could stop him from really hurting her.
I was seven when he burned her. I remember going to my neighbor's house in the night, calling the police, and holding my little brother, Peter, to me so that he wouldn't see me cry. He was only two, so he didn't understand why we were there. She was in the hospital that night, with second degree burns on her arms and neck. Thank the gods that she didn't scar too badly.
We moved to a small town just north of where we lived at the time, but Eric followed. My mom had dropped the charges, and I remember thinking that she was so stupid for doing that. Didn't she see how badly he hurt her? Nothing she did would ever make him quit. Nothing I did would stop him. No matter how hard I would try.
The beatings weren't as bad, then, because we lived across from a police officer. So, at least there was a little peace in my home. After another six months of living there, only one good thing happened. We found a puppy that was in need of some help, and we kept him and named him Spot. After a few more weeks, until I finished the second grade, we moved to Florida. I thought then that we were finally rid of him. That we could live a happy life with my grandma and Aunt Sydney and her boyfriend.
I guess I was wrong to hope so much.
We moved back home, and lived with my brother's dad, who was pretty nice. He had his moments where he'd yell a lot, but who doesn't? I liked him, and prayed that we could stay. We didn't. After three short months, my mom decided that she wanted to be with Eric again. Don't ask me why, because I can't tell you.

The beatings continued for another year, maybe a little longer. She was arrested in the Spring of my fourth grade year. That was 2004, I think. I'm not good with the years, sadly.
Peter and I moved in with Eric's brother and sister-in-law, Thomas and Darcy. I didn't want to go, but I knew that my mom would be home, then we'd be a family. I hoped that while she was gone she'd realize that Eric was bad news and decide that she could move on without him controlling everything that she thought or said. As is the case, I was wrong.
Peter was taken back by his father when he was seven. It killed me. The only thing that I loved was gone, and I didn't think that Aunt Darcy even liked me. Well, to rephrase, I know she didn't like me. She had told me on more than one occasion that she'd rather I "dropped off the face of the fucking earth." I knew that that's not something you should tell a nine-year-old. I didn't say anything back, though, knowing that a slap or punch would probably follow. So I kept quiet, and I pretended that there was nothing wrong with me. I went to school, wearing pants and long skirts to hide the bruises. I never looked people in the eye, for fear that they'd be able to see the pain that I had to shoulder.
I made it to the eighth grade fairly stable. Then the beatings she gave got worse, I was hurt by someone that I cared about more than anything, and I was basically turned into a slave. I started to cut, and then I made the alter-ego that I forced myself to become in public. Her name was Abigail, and she was stronger than me, tougher, and she made friends with people that I would be terrified to talk to. She was everything that I wasn't, and no one noticed that I became her. No one knew the real me.
The doctors have all said that I created her because of the trauma, but I'm not sure about that. I think I would have become her anyway because I'm so shy. I think that Abigail was inevitable.
Darcy never noticed, since I was the same meek, helpless child at home that she'd always been able to hurt. But there was a slight change in me. I didn't cry any more. Maybe she became more a part of me that I wasn't aware of. I'm not sure.

The summer of eighth grade was worse than ever. Summers were when Darcy could hurt me without discretion, since I had nowhere I had to go. She could hit me anywhere and know that no one would be around that would ask questions. It was also the summer I met my saving grace.
His name was Mark, and he was the nicest person I had ever met. I could look him in the eye, and I knew that he'd never yell or scream at me. I could tell him anything, because he was going through the same. We would sit in his backyard and talk and cry. He never wanted anything more from me. I think, now that I look back at it, he was my first real love. I could be Nikki around him, not Abigail. I didn't have to be tough or brave, I just had to let him in. It was never awkward when silences spread between us. The silence said more than any words could.
I admit now, to you my faithful readers, that I got into drugs. I did whatever I could to numb the pain at home. It was funny, Darcy herself was a pot head, so she never noticed when I came home high. She never noticed when I slept all day and made it a point to stay away from her and Thomas. Acid was my savior, and Mark my guardian angel. I fell into a pit of numbness and delusion, but it was for my own good. I only wanted a way to get out, a way to feel as if the pain was happening to someone else, not to me.
But that all ended two weeks before I started high school. He moved to his mom's in North Carolina, and I had to endure the pain all over again. I had to let Abigail be my face, my mask that I was afraid to take off. I felt that if I let the mask falter, the world would break me.
I became closer to my friend, Emma, that year. That was the year that the true instability of my mind was revealed. Emma would ask question after question, especially when she could tell that I had been crying. I always tried to brush it off, tried to be Abigail so that the questions wouldn't bother me. But they did. I cared about her; she was like my sister.
Finally on a scalding, September night at a football game, I let it all spill over. I told Emma everything. I told her about my mom and Eric, I let her see the real me. I let her know who Nikki really was. I finished my tale with a simple, "I understand if you don't want to be around me anymore. I'm a fake, and a weakling." She surprised me with a hug and told me that things would get better. She'd make sure of it. We plotted to get me out of Darcy's house, no matter what it took. We plotted to go to the police, but that terrified me. What if they arrested me instead? What if they found out about the drugs? I vowed not to tell them that. I knew that I should only tell them the important details.