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-Triana’s POV-

When I was 5 my mum lost her life to cancer. Ever since that day my Dad has hurt me. Hurt me with a passion so strong it burns. He blamed me for my mum’s death. He’d say that if I hadn’t been born this would never have happened. So he was going to make me wish that I’d never even been imagined.
I’d always wear long shirts and trousers, even in the summer, to cover up the awful marks left on my body.
One day, on the way back from school, I heard some kids playing some music. I’d heard it before. The song was called Helena and was my favourite song in the world, by my favourite band in the world. I first discovered My Chemical Romance when I was 7. I can’t really remember how. I think I just heard them on the radio, I’m Not Okay (I Promise) was playing. Just by listening to that song, my whole world changed. I realised that I wasn’t going through this alone.
I looked across at the kids playing music; I recognised some of them from school. I’d never had any friends, because as far as I was aware, no-one was like me. I walked over to them and started to talk with them about My Chem. I had an amazing time. We spoke about how they saved our lives and what our fave songs are and why.
After that, we went back to one of their houses.
Once we got in the door, they all sat round and took out some dollar bills and started to roll them up. “um, guys what are you doing?” I asked them. We learnt about this at school; isn’t it illegal? They explained that they were gonna shoot some crack and asked me if I wanted to. I started to reply saying that it could kill you, but then I thought; what have I got to lose?
After about a week with hanging out with those guys, I got hooked. I found out how to get my own and started it at home. It was the only thing that kept me sane through it all. I was so high all the time that the pain stopped. I just wanted to OD. I just wanted to get rid of it all.
Then it all ended. Or at least, I hoped it would be the end. My dad walked in my room just as I was taking a drag. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me out to the top of the stairs, screaming at me. I was so done up that I can’t really remember what he said. But then he threw me. My cries echoed around the house as I felt my insides being thrown around and my bones snapping.
I lie down at the bottom and wait as I hear his footsteps approaching. “You want to dull the pain?” he whispers in my ear.
He tore off my clothes, while I desperately tried to stop him. Then he raped me. He didn’t stop shouting and beating me. Afterwards he just left me there. Lying on the cold floor. Wanting to die.
Maybe it was a good thing that I met those guys; that the supplier knew where I lived. One of them, Matthew, came round. I heard him, but I still couldn’t stand. I managed to crawl over to the door and open it, before collapsing. I felt him wrap his arms around me; he was calling my name, but I was slipping away. Tired. I was so tired.

I woke up in a hospital room. A lot happened, but long-story-short; I had internal bleeding. The doctors were really concerned about the other injuries that were obviously older, but I stuck my ground. I fell down the stairs. It was kinda true.
When I was discharged I went to the only place I could. Home.
Dad was waiting for me, and no sooner than had I shut the door, he was on me again. He raped me every day, often twice a day, for a week. I couldn’t take it any more. The pain from him was too much, added to withdrawal symptoms. I needed out.
About 5 months later he took me to a hospital, put on his ‘I’m just an innocent man trying to fend for his daughter’ face and walked up to the reception desk. I didn’t know what was going on; they did a load of tests and stuff, but it was only when the results came out, did I break down.
I was pregnant. With my father’s child. Then it got worse! I was pregnant, not only with my dad’s child; but I was having twins. My dad told them that my ‘arsehole of a boyfriend’ (meaning him) ‘knocked me up’ because apparently I’m a just a whore.
We got back home and he starting beating me again. But I wasn’t going to let him hurt me, or else I’d have a miscarriage. I mean, I knew that I was having my sisters (in a weird way) but they were still mine. I think it was just the instinct kicking in.

I lasted the remaining 4 months. My water broke and my dad hit the roof. He threw things at me, he screamed at me. So I ran. I ran until I found a cab and then I got them to drive up to the hospital. And well, here I am.

I looked down at the beautiful creatures snuggled in my arms and sighed. For the first time in my life, I wanted to tell someone. I wanted to scream at the world how horrible my dad was to me. Everything he did, everything he was, and wasn’t.
Eventually a nurse came round and I confessed it to her. By the end she was crying and gave me a hug, before calling the police round. The next few days were filled with me getting used to the girls (who I still hadn’t named yet) and questions from the police. I even told them about the drugs and how I’d been reduced to relying on them to take away my pain. Everyone was shocked by the health of my girls after that; how did a mum who was getting repeatedly abused and a drug addict, manage to give birth to such healthy children? Through all the questions, I didn’t care, because my ‘dad’ was arrested. I was safe. And I was happy.

On the third night, after the police had left for the last time, I really needed a walk. I strolled through the hospital and into the waiting room. I noticed some guys rush in, asking about their friend. They seemed quite worried, but I didn’t get a good look at them as they started to talk with one another.
I made my way over to the coffee machine, where I found a homeless guy bent over a counter. I went up to him to ask him to hurry up. He looked at me with fury in his eyes, as well as fear. I looked down at his hands, which were badly trying to conceal some ominous white powder. Of course I knew what it was. The man growled at me and ran out of the room, leaving me staring at the thing that got me through so many months of agony. How will I cope? You can’t cope the voice in my head told me. I needed a hook. I needed something to keep me going.
I struggled with myself, against all the urges that were coursing through me. That is, until I heard someone approaching from behind me. I spun around, only to be faced with perhaps the only person who has really kept me going through my miserable blip of existence.