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Rebecca Taylor Jackson, a 17-year old girl who is being abused by her stepfather after her also abusive mother dies since she was 3 years old. Getting bullied in everyday life and getting beaten at home her life could not get any worse. But suddunly her life gets flipped outside down when her stepfather dies from an overdose and she finds out she has a father and 9 older brothers.
********
Sitting on the roof of my old, rundown house, gazing at the vast expanse of stars in the dark sky, I ponder my life and its purpose. I have no family, no friends, not even pets. I'm utterly alone, with nothing to lose and nothing to hope for. I'm merely existing, not truly living. I breathe, but I feel dead inside.
If only there was a switch to turn off emotions. If only I could block out the hurtful words, thoughts, and feelings. I try to convince myself that it's not true, that the pain will pass like a chapter in a book. But deep down, I know it's a lie. I've been stuck in the same chapter of my life, repeating the same cycle over and over again. Every day feels like a rerun.

But I've learned to numb myself, to shut out the pain. Numbness is all I feel now. It helps me cope with the words, thoughts, and feelings. I learned this when I was just nine years old. I used to cry when my parents would hit me, but I realized that my tears changed nothing. The abuse continued, and crying only seemed to please them. So, I stopped. I bottled everything up inside.

I don't burden anyone with my problems or what happens at home. I know they wouldn't do anything, just pity me. And pity is the last thing I want. I don't need anything from anyone. I have God. He gives me faith, hope, and love. I trust that he will help me. He's kept me going for a reason.

As a little girl, I only wanted one thing: for my parents to love me, to protect me, to care for me. I wanted my mom to help me with my hair, my clothes, or just give me life advice. I wanted my dad to call me his little princess, to chase away boys, to shield me from bullies. But we don't always get what we want. They turned into my biggest bullies, the monsters under my bed that I needed protection from. They destroyed me. He destroyed me, she destroyed me. Both of them shattered me into irreparable pieces.
I always wondered what I did to deserve their hate, their cruelty, their disdain. But every time, I came up empty. I was just a kid, barely able to stand, so I never had an answer.

It's 4:00 in the morning, and I have to go make breakfast for my stepfather and clean the house, or else I'll get my daily dose of "love" (note the sarcasm). With that lovely thought, I dragged myself up, my muscles aching. Big mistake—I bent over and nearly screamed in pain. Yesterday, I was ten minutes late coming home from work, and he whipped my back and dislocated my knee. I don't even know how I'm walking right now, but I guess I've gotten used to the pain.

I trudged to my room, which is basically the attic. All I have is a thin mattress, a thin blanket, no pillow, and a chair in the corner where I keep my stuff. I went to the broken mirror in the bathroom, lifted my shirt, and exposed my ribs. My stomach is a mess—burn marks, open wounds, bruises. It's a rainbow of black, blue, purple, yellow, and green. And the worst part? The word "wh*ore" carved right in the middle. My so-called mom did that with a pocket knife when I was late coming home from school after working on a project with a boy.

I don't even know how she found out. I don't dwell on it anymore. I just dress my wounds, sanitize the cuts with rubbing alcohol, and slap on big, white antiseptic bandages. Then I put on my clothes.

I make sure to hide the bruises on my face and hands with foundation. Can't let anyone know.

When I'm done, I stand and look at myself in the mirror. My green-blue eyes are dead, devoid of life, no sparkle left in them. They used to shine with life and happiness, but now they're just empty. My face is too thin, too pale from lack of food and dehydration. My clothes hang off me because I'm so thin. Overall, I'm not the most pleasant sight.

After I'm done, I head downstairs to start on breakfast. I open the fridge, take out the ingredients, and get to work. Four pieces of toast—two with fried eggs, two with strawberry jam—and half an avocado on the side. I put the plate on the table and grab a beer from the fridge. But as soon as I set the bottle down, I hear his heavy footsteps approaching. He's coming.
I stand in the kitchen corner, keeping my head down. It's one of the rules I have to follow, or else I'll get punished.
He walks in, sits on the stool, and starts eating. Next thing I know, a fist flies into my face. He punches me, and I taste the familiar metal of blood in my mouth. He busted my lip, which had just healed. Another punch comes, and he yells, "WHAT IS THIS, YOU DAMN WH*ORE?"
"T-toast, sir," I stutter, staring at the floor. Another rule is calling him sir and never making eye contact; he thinks it's disrespectful.
He doesn't like my answer, throws me to the floor, and starts kicking my stomach.
This goes on for an hour, and when he finally stops, I can barely keep my eyes open.
"That's what you get, you filthy bi-tch," he spits.
Through blurry vision, I see him grab his car keys and leave, slamming the door behind him.
Slowly, I stand with the support of the wall and make my way to my room. I reapply foundation to cover the new bruises. Then I eat a small granola bar from the kitchen and take two painkillers for my ribs; he broke three, I think.
Afterward, I head outside to leave for work. I close and lock the door behind me. I work as a waitress in a cute popular café that's 30 minutes away. I've been there for 2 years, and the owners treat me like family.
Arriving at the café, the smell of freshly baked goods and coffee greets me. I greet Nancy and David, the owners, and get ready for work. As I'm about to start, the bell above the door jingles, indicating a customer.
I put on my apron, grab my notebook and pen, and head outside to start my shift. Let the day begin.
***

When I was walking home after get off work a feeling washes over me, like something big is about to happen. Lost in my thoughts, I don't notice the police cars outside my home, with bright blue and red lights flashing.
My heart starts racing. Why are the police here? What if Boris did something, and they're coming for me? With these thoughts racing, I don't notice a police officer walking toward me.
"Excuse me, are you Rebecca Anderson?" the officer asks.
"Yes, sir, is everything okay?" I inquire, concern evident in my voice.
"I'm sorry, honey, but your stepfather overdosed, and sadly, he didn't make it," he says, pity in his eyes and voice.
My heart skipped a beat. Boris was dead. Finally. He can't hurt me anymore. Free from his grip. Never thought he'd go before me. Always feared he'd go too far one day and kill me. Dream come true.

But then, a thought hit me. Where do I go? No dad, mom said he split when she got pregnant. No aunts, uncles, grandparents I know of. Foster system's no good. Don't wanna bounce from bad home to worse.

"But where do I go? Got no one to take me in," I said, fear gripping my heart.

"We'll check for relatives with a blood sample at the station. If not, orphanage or foster care. For now, pack up and we'll head there, okay?" He suggested, sympathy in his voice.

I nodded, grabbed my stuff. Not much to pack. Two shirts, two sweaters, sweatpants, leggings, underwear, bra. Tossed 'em in my backpack along with the 1,500 bucks I saved up. Checked the room one last time. Leaving feels unreal. Too good to be true.

Went downstairs, found the officer, said I was ready. Got in the car, headed to the station. Parked, went in. Officer said to wait while he did his thing.

An hour later, felt someone shaking me. Jumped up, thinking it was Boris. Saw the officer, sighed in relief. But he had this big grin on his face, confusing me. Then he dropped a bombshell.
"Well, I've got some good news for you. We found someone who'd love to take you in," he said with a big grin.
"Who?" I asked, curious.
"Your dad and older brothers," he replied.
I stood there, frozen. I couldn't hear anything else he was saying. 'Father' kept echoing in my head. Why would he want me now? Why? He could've spared me years of pain and suffering, and now he wants me? I couldn't believe it. My ears were ringing, my heart pounding in my chest.
I didn't notice the officer calling my name until he started shaking my shoulder. I flinched and stepped away from him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
"F-father?" I whispered, still in shock from what I'd just been told.
"Yeah, your father. Isn't that great? Well, how about you rest for a bit? It'll be a couple of hours till he arrives; he's coming from New York," he explained.
I nodded, unable to find any words. It's like my tongue was tied.
'Father.' I have a father, and he said I have brothers.
How many brothers do I have? Will they like me? What if they hate me? What if they never wanted a sister? Oh god, what if they hurt me? I could barely keep up with Boris, and now a father and brothers. I couldn't think anymore; I could feel a headache starting. I rubbed my temples and took two painkillers.
My body hurt so much, and with this new information... I rested my head against the wall and wondered, will this be my fresh start with my new family, or will it be my new h*ell?

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