Page 7 of Little Psycho

I look at the outfit laid out for me, still refusing to put it on.I know it’ll piss my mother off, but the more I fight, the more alive I feel.Chaos seems to motivate me, and I crave it more than anything.

She pushes my door open and storms in, the look on her face evil and threatening.

“Put the fucking dress on, Calista!I’m sick and tired of fighting with you about it,” my mother screams at me, throwing a slutty red dress in my face.

“I don’t want to wear it; it’s way too short.”As soon as the words leave my lips, I regret them.

My mother charges at me, her evil eyes wild and frightening.I try to back up, but there’s nowhere to go—nowhere to run with this chain around my ankle.

She’s in front of me before I know it, and her open hand connects with my cheek before I can blink.A punch comes next, but not in my face, of course.She hits me where no one else can see, at least not right away.My ribcage is her favorite; kidneys are a close second.

I try to protect my malnourished body, but everything is so weak, and I end up succumbing to another brutal attack that leaves me broken even more.

“Put the fucking dress on or I’ll send your father up here,” she threatens, and I grab the dress off the floor and begin undressing to put it on.

When she’s satisfied, she leaves the attic, locking the door from the outside so I can’t escape.It’s been like this since I turned thirteen, and for the last eight years, I’ve been trapped in a nightmare I can’t get out of.

Mother likes to host ‘shows’, and I’m the main attraction.She parades me in front of men old enough to be my father, making each one bid on me just so she can make an extra buck.My father finds those men through his job.Being a state senator, he knows a lot of wealthy people—disturbed people.

They’re a sick and twisted team, and if I ever get out of here, I’m going to take every last one of them down.

Slipping into the dress that ends just below my ass, I look at myself in the broken full-length mirror, seeing how much damage I have to try and cover up before the show starts.Mother will be mad if anyone sees a mark on my body.She doesn’t know about the scars on the inside of my thighs—the ones I’ve made myself with a razorblade I keep tucked under the mattress on the floor.

I started cutting myself not long after my thirteenth birthday, when everything went to shit.If other people, including the ones I loved and trusted the most, could hurt me, then why couldn’t I hurt myself?I did it to remind myself that I was still alive, even though I didn’t want to be.There was something addicting about watching myself bleed from wounds I made.

Just thinking about it, my thighs begin to tremble and ache, and the urge to cut myself begins to grow heavier and heavier.But I force it aside and focus on getting ready, knowing I’ll have plenty of time later to cut as much as I want.

I put foundation on and a little bit of bronzing powder to make my face smooth and shimmery.I blink, coating my lashes with jet-black mascara, adding a few extra coats to make them longer and thicker.Using my eyeliner on my upper lids, I do a little flick at the end to help make my eyes pop, and it doesn’t come out too bad.Lastly, I grab the red lipstick—the one that matches the dress—and coat my lips in it, looking like a completely different person when I look at myself in the mirror.

I look like a fucking whore.

I sit on the mattress on the floor, without a sheet or a blanket, and slip my feet into a brand new pair of black pumps, giving me a few extra inches from the height of the heel.

My hands shake, and the voices begin to start.I hear them in my head nonstop.They tell me not to take my medication, but my mother makes sure that I do—usually by shoving it down my throat.

They tell me to do things, but I do my best to ignore them.The meds do a good job of suppressing them, but it’s never for long.Addy loves to come out and play the most.Out of all the voices in my head, she’s my favorite.

One minute I’m happy, and the next I want to kill the entire world; it’s my bipolar, mother says.Our family doctor diagnosed me with manic bipolar, depression, severe anxiety, PTSD with nightmares and flashbacks, and a slew of other things I feel like are made up.

They say I’m crazy, but Addy tells me I’m perfect.They keep me on all of these meds to keep me quiet.

They don’t want me to talk; nobody does.

The attic door opens, and my mother and father stand in the doorway, dressed as if they’re going to some fancy dinner or some shit.They don’t look evil, but they are.

“It’s time for your meds, Calista.”My father comes in and hands me a blue pill, an orange capsule, a green pill, two pink ones, and six different white ones—all to help control the crazy inside of me.

I take the pills from his hand, swallowing the lithium first, then the Xanax and Klonopin, and I keep going until all eleven pills are gone.I chug the water they give me, taking advantage of the lukewarm liquid moistening my throat since I haven’t had a drink in days.

“Stand up and let me see you,” my mother orders, and I listen immediately, afraid of another senseless beating.

I spin around, letting her inspect my body and outfit, praying I did everything right.When I hear a sigh slip from her mouth, my entire body shuts down and I freeze, trying to brace myself for her fists.But they don’t come.

“You look perfect.You’re going to make us a lot of money tonight.”She gives me an evil smile and yanks my arm, digging her nails into my skin until she breaks the skin and makes me bleed.

I’ll pay for that later, especially if someone sees it.

I’m dragged out of the attic and led down to the basement of the mansion, where all their shows are held.Dark red walls and black silk curtains decorate the space, giving off a dungeon vibe.As soon as we descend the long hallway, I spot the boys that I knew from school—before I was pulled out and “homeschooled"—and I begin to wonder what they’re doing here.

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