My hot tears continue to roll down my cheeks.

I've never done anything wrong? Why must you punish ME?

I continue to run down the never ending hallway trying to get back to my room. I turn my head around quickly, and he's closer than he was before. I run faster than I've ever sprinted before and take a sharp left. I stumble up the stair steps and finally reach the cold, rusty doorknob that led to the attic stairwell.

"Come back here you useless piece of—"

I slam the door before my father could finish his sentence and pushed my dresser in front of the creaky door. I should've made dinner right, just like he asked. A series of vicious pounds hit the door before it finally stops. My heart continues to race as I curl up in the corner of my room. I try my best to slow down the tears but they won't stop. They blind my eyesight.

All my life I have been stuck in this house with my parents, Barbara and Anderson Simpson. They've always been abusive and I've never understood how I could be related to them. My dad is the worst when he gets drunk; he throws his empty bottles at me and shouts the most repulsive words to me. Mom leaves me without food for days and threatens to not allow me to attend school.

They've kept me in the attic.

The dark cold attic.

The winters and summers are absolutely brutal. It's either extremely hot or freezing cold. It's the middle of October so it's a lot cooler, which makes me slightly happier.

I sit cross-cross on the old, wooden floor. Quietly, I examine the deep cut on my arm. I wince as the crimson blood gushes from the wound. I gag at the looks of it. The smell of copper engulfs me; it's a smell I've never grown accustomed to in all my sixteen years of life. I try to clean it with some water from a water bottle and pick out the tiny pieces of green glass with a toothpick. I then try to gently bandage it up with an old bandana that I've had for years.

Ive always been left to fend for my own. I have been neglected for as long as I can remember. I never even get new clothes. I only have two pairs of jeans, three shirts, and one flimsy sweater.

I've always been the outcast at school. No one tried to befriend me. I've always had my nose in a book, or I would be drawing portraits and things around me. I was the unusual and quiet, nerdy girl. Most people just stare as they see the bruises and cuts on my pale body, they don't seem to care that I am malnourished and bruised. No one has ever asked questions or acknowledged what situation I could be in. My father has put fear into anyone who dares to question his parenting. That's why I don't like anyone. They always care about themselves first, they won't speak up if it doesn't concern them. At least not in the towns I have lived in. I've learned the hard way not to tell anyone what's happening to me.

I've never had any friends, the only person I'd regularly talk to was the school nurse. She never really asked questions but gave me a small amount of things to keep me from getting infections from the cuts, as well as some feminine products.

You're probably wondering who this good-for-nothing, complaining girl is. Well I go by the name Aubrey Valentina Simpson and I'm not your average teenage girl. I don't go to parties, I don't have a group of best friends, nor have I ever had a boyfriend. I can't remember the last time I had fun.

I look back down at my cut and realize that I should fix it up a little bit more. I then wrap myself up in the dirty, thin sheet and lay on the cheap, springy mattress. I probably won't get any dinner now, so I lay my head and try to get some sleep.

• • •

"If you don't get this door open in the next ten seconds I will beat you so hard you won't be able to walk again!" Barbara yells on the other side.

There goes my goodnight's sleep.

I stumble out of bed and move the dresser with my uninjured arm. Outside the door she leans with her hand on her hip.

"You ungrateful child! Pack your things we are leaving."

"May I ask why," I try to question, remembering to do so as politely as I can.

"Don't talk back. Your stupid father was so loud the neighbors decided to make a complaint after all these years. Police will be showing up soon. Let's go... NOW!"

I nod frantically and take my few possessions: my books, schoolbag, clothes, and the bracelet I've had since I was born.

I look behind to see the room I've lived in for the past year.

I won't miss it.

I walk down the stairs and see Mom and Dad grabbing boxes and putting things into them.

"Be useful and take up this box!" Mom yells.

I messily grab the tape and rip a piece off. But before I close the box I notice something unusual. I unravel the blanket and notice a family portrait falls out, landing on top of all the clothes. I throw it in my backpack because it seems important, and is obviously not my family.

Later in the car I decide to flip it over and in cursive writing it reads:

August 4, 2002

Mr. Stefano Romano and wife Laura Cartwright-Romano bring new addition to the family, a daughter: Valentina Romano. The twins Lorenzo and Marina welcome new sister at the age of two.

I think for a moment. Two weeks before August fourth would be July 21, 2002.

My birthday.

And my middle name is Valentina.

Huh.

What the hell?

I think this is my family.

No! Don't be stupid Aubrey.

But if these were my parents, who was down stairs with me?

Stop thinking nonsense Aubrey! That's a stretch.

But at that moment I realized something.

Everything had finally clicked.

The constant abuse, hatred, and whispering. How my parents look nothing like me, no pictures ever hanging up. I knew something was up, but i never knew exactly what it was.

Maybe Barbara and Anderson Simpson were not my parents. But what if they truly are?

I just need to be positive though, before I get ahead of myself.

All I know is that when I find out the truth I'm gonna leave right when I get the chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~