"The Whipping Girl"
By: Metallica_Worshipper
E-mail: metallica_lover_adorer@hotmail.com
Part: 1
Type: Other Trainer

Summary: A teenage girl, Chelsea, who has a horrible life at home decides to 
run away and become a Poke'mon trainer. Things don't work out as planned, 
however, and the only thing she can do to survive is to become a Team Rocket 
member. There, she recieves her first Poke'mon, an Umbreon who is very 
difficult to handle due to several prior members abusing it. Chelsea relates 
to the Umbreon because she had to live with similar abuse dealt to her by 
her father, so she makes it her goal to tame the creature, believing that if 
she can tame it and make it overcome it's emotional pain, then she can, too. 
Together, they will face many hardships. . .and in the end, you can 
determine for yourself whether their goal was finally reached.

Warnings: This is based loosely on my own life, and depending on the way you 
see things, something might or might not turn out disturbing . . .you be the 
judge. Otherwise . . . there's nothing really serious in this part. A few 
cuss words . . .I apologize for those who might be offended, but I wanted to 
get the point across. Besides, they're not really bad, BAD words. And the 
word "sex" (blushes) is used. Don't worry!! It's only mentioned--this story 
won't have that in here. So far, I don't think this story will have any 
romance in it . . .

---
The first thing that I was aware of was the silence.
Maybe for some, silence wouldn't be an unusual sound, but once you've lived 
in the atmosphere I've lived in for thirteen years, silence is something to 
be both wary of, and to celebrate. So naturally, by the pure human instincts 
for survival, I switched my level of cautiousness to blood red--anything 
could happen, and I didn't want to be caught off-guard. Not again, at least.
I lifted my head from where I was lying, all at once becoming aware that I 
was in my room, which was not natural when the nights before were normal. 
Another reason to be suspicious.
I slowly propped myself up on my elbows, taking in the sights of the four 
walls of my sanctuary, which were coated in morning brightness. I turned my 
head to read the red, glowing digital numbers displayed on my alarm clock, 
when suddenly my neck was met with a sharp cutting pain.
I cried out in a combination of shock and pain, and silently uttered a 
short, four-lettered word that expressed all the stress I'd been feeling 
since I had woken up . . .or had I regained conciousness? I wasn't sure, but 
I figured it didn't matter. This neck-pain pretty much summed it all up.
With that in mind, I sat up and grimaced as I rubbed my neck and looked 
about the room, my eyes scanning across my text-books and unfinished 
homework to my poor, flaky-painted furniture, to settle on my broken window. 
I sighed as I stopped rubbing my neck and eyed the crack that ran from the 
left corner to settle near the middle of the glass. It symbolized everything 
wrong with my life pretty well.
I quickly shifted my gaze to my alarm clock. It read 8:50 a.m.
Good, I thought with relief, Daddy's gone.
I was pretty sure he was gone, and had been at work for some time by now, 
but my fear of the pain he inflicted when drunk or angry was what pulled me 
to my blistered feet, and walked me to the window to check and make sure. I 
pulled back the thin green curtain and craned my neck, although it hurt a 
great deal, to look towards the garage.
Amidst the gray overcast sky, I saw no car. In fact, I saw no cars, for by 
this time, everyone on the block was at work. Or at school, with the lonely 
exception of me. I could've still gone to school . . .but I just decided to 
skip again. I didn't feel up to anything. I had to plan for the afternoon, 
anyway.
I let out a great sigh of relief, and then walked quickly to my closet. I 
pulled out a terribly faded pair of jeans, a gray t-shirt that was four 
sizes too big, and looked like a Houndour had mauled the bottom of the left 
sleeve, and a pair of socks to help shield my feet from splinters in the 
warped wooden floor. I quickly undressed out of the clothes I had been 
wearing since the previous day, and re-dressed into the clothes I had just 
chosen from the closet. I then walked across the room towards the door. I 
wanted to get a head start on cleaning the house. I wanted it clean when I 
left, and I wanted it to be sort of ironic for Dad.
But before I made it to my bedroom door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the 
mirror, seeing myself as I was. My hand held limply to the door knob, for it 
was now forgotten as I observed myself in the mirror on my dresser, with a 
look of sorrow on my face. Because what I saw disgusted me, as it always had 
even before I really understood why. Maybe it was because other's were more 
than happy to tell me they thought I was ugly, or I dressed like a homeless 
person. Maybe it's because I believed them. Maybe it's both, but it doesn't 
really matter, because either way, I am. I was ugly. Only other people 
thought I didn't know it, so they went on reminding me day after day.
I had light brown hair that went past my shoulders, for it wasn't styled, 
and I never did anything special with it. It just hung there, at different 
lengths in the back because when I was nervous, I pulled at it. My hair was 
pathetic. I wasn't really aware of it, but I was beginning to suspect the 
only reason I lived with it was because I could hide behind it. It could 
block the points and stares directed towards me by my peers quite 
effectively.
Hidden underneath my hair were my eyes of blue-gray, which had seen a great 
share of the pain and suffering of the world. Maybe that's why I didn't let 
people look into my eyes. Because my eyes were a window that anyone could 
peer into and see my pain.
I was at an average hieght for my age, thirteen. I stood 5'6", the length 
mostly coming from my middle since I had short legs. Another source of 
ridicule--I couldn't run very good. And that was especially ironic, since I 
had to run a lot to escape certain things.
I sighed, remembering that if I wanted the house entirely cleaned before I 
left, then I'd have to hurry or I would certainly have to run away from Dad 
and make a poor exit, so I turned the doorknob and left my room, heading 
down the hall and towards the living room. All thoughts of appearance left 
me, because it was time to start working. I had a feeling that since my neck 
hurt so bad from the night before, there'd be a real doozy of a mess in the 
living room.
I was correct.
I quickly got to work on cleaning the beer stains from over-turned cans out 
of the faded and now puke-shaded yellow carpet. After awhile, the silence 
started making me nervous, so I turned on the television. But not too loudly 
. . .today was a Thursday, afterall. A school day. If anyone knew I was 
home, I'd be in trouble because they'd tell my father. And even though he 
doesn't really care about my education, he would never miss out on an 
opportunity to hurt me.
The volume was left on minimum. After awhile, however, the morning news 
stories of events in every part of the world but my own began to get boring, 
so I stopped concentrating on it. I began trying to remember what happened 
last night.
I could remember faintly . . .my father had come home from work at around 
eight and someone had come to the door. . .and had called me to the living 
room at ten-thirty. . .I sat on the couch, I think . . .and I think he 
started getting on to me about something. Something about some guy? . . 
.yeah, I think that was it.
Then I remembered.

Earlier the day before, around seven-something in the morning, our 
neighbor's fifteen-year-old son, Justin Dearborn, had come over to my window 
while I was gathering my textbooks together for school.
Justin was well-built, and quite athletic, even though he didn't really care 
for sports too much. He had dark brown hair that often had gel in it that 
made it do that funny little thing above his forehead, where his bangs just 
went up at an angle. And his eyes were a beautiful shade of brown that I 
could literally stare at for hours. It was kind of cold outside, being 
autumn, and all, so he was wearing a maroon long-sleeved shirt with blue 
jeans. He had his backpack on his shoulder.
He had tapped on the window, and I had walked over towards him, wondering 
why he was at my window, and what he wanted, but still somehow enjoying the 
presence of a kind person. My eyes landed on the crack in the window, and I 
quickly became ashamed. I tried to ignore it, and opened the window 
carefully.
"Hi, Justin!" I said, somewhat over-enthusiastically, trying to mask my 
excitement of talking to him and embarrassment of the broken window, "It's 
nice to see you! What can I do for you?"
He smiled, "Ah, you don't need to do anything for me, Chelsea," he said in 
his deep and mature voice, "But I was just wondering if you had heard the 
news this morning?"
I looked at him curiously. Justin was a great guy--he was my only friend, 
and he knew my interests. So whatever he was about to say was something I 
definately wanted to hear.
"No, Justin, I'm sorry. I couldn't watch TV this morning. Daddy was home, 
and he wanted me to clean the house up really quick," I didn't mention the 
finer details, which would explain the bruise that was already forming on my 
arm. I tried to keep Justin from guessing what really happened by laughing 
lightly after I spoke.
But I don't think it worked. He was a smart boy, and I guess he could read 
some note in my voice that betrayed me. But then again, it didn't take a 
genius to see through my disguise.
He looked at me sympathically, his brown eyes first looking into mine, and 
then dropping down to my left arm, the arm with the bruise. I quickly raised 
my arm and acted like I was pushing my hair back behind my ears, then I held 
my hands behind me and smiled at him, pathetically hoping to draw his 
attention away from the obvious abuse going on in my home, "So what 
happened?"
His eyes met mine again, and then he smiled mischievously, "Well, you missed 
something great, then."
"What is it?" I repeated, "Was it something like, the Palistinians stopped 
blowing themselves up, or something? Did they capture bin Laden?"
"No . . ." he said with a laugh, "But what happened . . .I think it would 
mean a lot more to you than those other things would. . .you're pretty 
oblivious aren't you?"
"Then just tell me!" I said, playfully exasperated. "I'd really love to 
know. And I don't want to be late for school! If you keep leading me on like 
this, we're both going to be late, Justin!"
He laughed again, "Okay, I'll tell you. You're going to love this."
"I'm ready," I said as I smiled at him and waited patiently.
"Okay," he said, "Well, it seems like the famous Professor Oak and his 
assisstants are coming to the Poke'mon Center tomorrow afternoon from four 
to seven to issue Poke'mon to anyone who wants to become a Poke'mon trainer. 
The only requirements are that the person is kind, caring, and responsible. 
The Poke'mon are all friendly, and ready for an everlasting friendship with 
a new trainer, a trainer of any age, sex, race, or financial standing."
My mouth hung open for a minute, and my heart practically stopped. A cool, 
before-storm breeze began to blow, making my horrible hair sway a bit from 
side to side. Along with the clouds shifting in the breeze, that was the 
only movement. A car back-fired somewhere a couple of streets down, and Mrs. 
Schoondist was scolding her five-year-old, Carly, for throwing stones at a 
Pidgey, which I could barely hear over the beating of my heart. That was the 
only sound.
I hesitantly asked, "You're not lying . . .are you?"
He shook his head with a grin, "Nope. They're doing it for free, too, so 
maybe your dad won't get too nuclear about it."
I then jumped up and threw my hands in the air with joy. I let out a shout 
of happiness, and I laughed even though my eyes were watering with tears of 
joy. All my dreams had just come true! Today I had finally gotten that break 
I had been looking for for years! I could finally become a Poke'mon trainer! 
For free! Dad wouldn't have to pay a cent, and I could get a Poke'mon and 
start my training, and leave this horrible place! Everybody wins!
"Oh, Justin, thank you!" I said, overjoyed and almost in love with him for 
telling me of this wonderful, unexpected event. Without even thinking of 
what I was doing, I leaned half-way out the window and threw my arms around 
his neck, hugging him tightly. I even kissed his cheek--that's how happy I 
was!
He laughed and hugged me back. We must've been an awkward sight, me hanging 
half-way out of a window hugging Justin at a point in time where we would be 
very late to school no matter what form of transportation we took there. But 
I didn't care! I was delighted beyond all measure, and nothing else really 
mattered then, not even the fact that if I missed one more first period 
Algebra class, I'd certainly fail and be hopelessly lost amongst equations I 
couldn't understand.
After a moment, we pulled back from each other with our hands still on each 
other's shoulders.
"Oh, Justin," I said with tears in my eyes, "I'm so happy! My, God, I can't 
believe it . . .my dream really is going to come true . . .!" I gave in and 
hugged him again, my tears soaking into his shoulder.
He laughed and patted me on the back, "I'm happy for you, Chelsea," he said 
encouragingly, "I mean, I truly am. You're going to be a great Poke'mon 
trainer. I can feel it."
"I hope so," said my muffled, teary voice, "For the sake of your confidence 
and my future Poke'mon, I sure hope so!"
"You will be!" he said confidently, "You're the kindest and most sweetest, 
Poke'mon-wise girl I've met so far. Your Poke'mon will be lucky."
I pulled back from him slowly and smiled at him through my teary eyes, "Oh, 
Justin--"
"Justin!" came a loud shout from our right, "What on earth are you doing!?"
We both gasped as we saw Justin's father, Mr. Dearborn, standing on the 
steps to their front door. He had probably been about to leave for work, as 
it was now eight o' clock. He looked more shocked than he did angry, though. 
Thank God for small favors.
Justin and I's hands flew off of each other, and I watched as his face 
turned a deep red color, almost matching his shirt color. I blushed, too. 
Neither of our parent's knew we even knew each other's names, let alone were 
close friends. And we had been caught in a position which could be easyily 
misunderstood, given the proper incentive.
Mr. Dearborn frowned, "Young man, what are you doing over there?" he asked 
sharply, demanding an answer, "It's eight o' clock! You should've been at 
school fifteen minutes ago! Now you're going to be late, and you're going to 
have Saturday detention! Unbelieveable! Now, what in the world are you doing 
over there?"
Justin winced and glanced at me quickly, then looked back towards his 
father, "Nothin', Dad, I was just talking to Chelsea. I was--"
"And you!" Mr. Dearborn said suddenly in a harsh voice. I quickly looked up 
at him and saw he was pointing at me, "What are you doing home? You're 
father would be very angry if he knew you were at home, young lady. I'm 
going to have to tell him, aren't I?"
My eyes widened, as did Justin's. If Mr. Dearborn came over and told my Dad 
he had seen me speaking to Justin, and--God forbid--hugging him, I would be 
in so much trouble. Dad was really protective of me around teenage boys--any 
boy--saying that all boys were after one thing. . .which I never shared his 
opinion of. It made me sick. And Dad would also be angry if he knew I was 
drawing the neighbors' attention. He would be furious. He might be angry 
enough to put me in the hospital . . .and I'd miss my chance to become a 
Poke'mon trainer! I gasped as I realized that.
Justin must've thought the same thing, too, because he was quick to the 
defense.
"No, dad, you don't understand," he said, upset, "It's my fault."
"How so?" Mr. Dearborn said, raising an eyebrow as he crossed his arms. 
Obviously, he wasn't believing any bit of this, and he was anxious to prove 
Justin wrong so he could leave for work.
"Well, you know that story on the news?" Justin asked, determined, "About 
those people bringing the Poke'mon over here for people to begin training? I 
just came by to tell her that, and I was just trying to let her know she's 
got my support on it. None of it's her fault. She was about to leave when I 
came by."
Mr. Dearborn's look softened a notch. He looked at me, "You want to become a 
Poke'mon trainer?"
I nodded hesitantly, "Yes, Mr. Dearborn." I said in my most practical, adult 
like voice I could conjure up out of my dry throat, "And I really appreciate 
your son coming over to tell me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known a thing."
Mr. Dearborn looked from me to Justin, and back to me quickly, like he was 
waiting for one of us to suddenly tell him a different story, the story he 
had expected to hear from us. None of us said anything, and after another 
moment, Mr. Dearborn looked as though he accepted our excuse.
"Very well," he said, "I believe you. Now, both of you, leave! Go to school, 
where you're supposed to be. Justin," Mr. Dearborn said sharply, "I hope 
you're going to be happy with a five-hour detention on Saturday."
"It doesn't matter, sir," Justin said evenly, "I had to tell her."
I was shocked when I saw a strange smile cross Mr. Dearborn's face. It 
seemed sort of cynical. Once again, he looked from me to Justin, making me 
suddenly feel very uneasy. Like me was mocking me in some way. Ridiculing 
me.
"And you, Miss Davis," he said in a strange, contempt voice, "I won't tell 
your father."
"Thanks," I said with relief.
We were all silent for a moment. I noticed Mr. Dearborn looked as though he 
wanted to ask a question. I figured that was what he was trying to decide. I 
could practically feel his brain whirring from where I was standing at my 
window. Finally, he popped the question.
"How long have you two known each other?" he asked, sounding puzzled.
"For a long time, Dad," Justin answered. "And we don't just know each 
other--we're friends."
"Why haven't you ever told me?" Mr. Dearborn asked.
"You never asked." Justin replied evenly, "Plus, it didn't ever seem too 
important."
"Hmm . . ." Mr. Dearborn said, then he added in a worried tone, "You're not  
. .going out, are you?"
I immediately flushed red and looked away from Justin and Mr. Dearborn. I 
was embarrassed by that question. Plenty people had asked it, including some 
girls from Justin's highschool. They had gone right up to me, sniffing in 
disdain and asking if I was his girlfriend, How rude is that? Well, that was 
the same tone I detected in Mr. Dearborn's voice. I guess he thought I 
wasn't good enough for his son. Figures. I was rarely good enough for 
anything, anyway.
"No, Dad, we're not going out," Justin replied in an annoyed 
"you're-embarrassing-me" tone. "We're just friends. Just go to work, will 
you? Now we're all going to be late."
"Very well," he said, "and good luck with becoming a Poke'mon trainer," he 
added as he began walking down the steps of his house towards his car. He 
began to open the car door, and then stopped suddenly. He looked back at 
Justin.
"Do you want a ride?" he asked Justin.
Justin looked at me, then back at his dad, "Can she come with?"
"Er. . ." Mr. Dearborn said, "Her father wouldn't like it, but I guess if 
she wants to risk that . . ."
"Then no," Justin said quickly, "I'll just walk her to her school, then go 
on my way."
"All right," Mr. Dearborn said with a sigh, not caring to hide his obvious 
disdain and dislike for his son to be involved with me or my family. He 
climbed in his car, and went on his way, pulling slowly out from his 
driveway, then going down the road a little bit quicker than usual.
Justin sighed and looked at me, "Don't mind him, Chelsea, he doesn't really 
like anyone too much."
"It's alright," I said, even though I was a little sad. Mr. Dearborn hated 
my father, and I guess he hated me, too, for being his daughter. "I'm used 
to it."
"You shouldn't have to be," he said softly, "Well, let's go."
"Alright," I said, happy I was getting to spend some time with him, "Give me 
a sec."
I quickly closed the window, grabbed my backpack, and ran to the front door. 
I met Justin on the sidewalk in front of my house, and we began on our way.
I was certain now that he was my best friend. He had just defended me from 
his father, whom he had a great deal of respect for. I understood how much 
it meant.
"Thanks for everything, Justin," I said with a smile as we walked 
side-by-side down the sidewalk towards my middle school, which was four 
blocks down.

Later that evening, around eight-forty, or so, I had been studying from my 
science textbook when someone knocked on the door. I was terribly afraid it 
would be Mr. Dearborn, but when I looked out my window, I had only seen Mrs. 
Leigh, our other neighbor. I heard the doorbell ring again. I was waiting to 
hear the sound of my father getting up and answering the door, but I figured 
he was too lazy (or drunk) to do it, so I ran downstairs and quickly 
answered the door on it's third ring.
"Hello, Mrs. Leigh," I said warmly as I could fake. I didn't really like 
Mrs. Leigh. She was one of those religion-oriented women. And I mean 
oriented to an insane point. I had always had the feeling she didn't like me 
. . .maybe it was because my father always told her I was a bad child. He 
said I never listened to him, and got into all sorts of trouble with school 
and other students. Why he said those things, I'll never know. Maybe because 
he wanted someone to feel sorry for him.
Well, he sure got Mrs. Leigh's sympathy.
Mrs. Leigh, was a tall lady, almost six foot. She had long blonde hair with 
a beak-like nose, and she always wore long skirts, and long-sleeved blouses, 
as to not appear "blasphemous".
She looked at me with a looked that clearly showed she was calling me a 
"ragamuffin" in her mind, and even possibly "a little, dirty 
you-know-what-itute". I think you know what I mean.
After my greeting, she responded with a fake smile, "Oh, hello, dear." she 
looked in through the doorway at our house, "Is your father home? I'd like 
to speak with him for a moment."
"Okay, Ma'am." I said with a nod, thinking, if you want 'im, you're gonna 
get 'im, "I'll get him."
I walked away, into the living room where my Dad was already standing up and 
brushing himself off.
"It's Mrs. Leigh." I explained, "She says she wants to talk to you."
"I know, I know, you damn idiot, do you think I can't hear her from here?" 
he growled at me as he began to walk to the door. "This better not be about 
you, 'cause if it is, I swear to God you're gonna regret it. You hear me, 
girl?"
"Yes, sir." I reassured. "I'm pretty sure it's not about me . . .I don't 
remember doing anything bad today."
"That don't mean nothin', your memory's for shit, anyway." he muttered. He 
grumbled something else, but I didn't stick around to listen to it. I went 
upstairs so I could finish studying for my science test tomorrow and get on 
to reading about Poke'mon care. I wanted to be more than prepared for 
tomorrow afternoon when I recieved my Poke'mon.
I smiled as I entered my room when this thought occured to me. Just thinking 
about Poke'mon training made me happy. Oh, I couldn't wait for tomorrow!

Later that night, a little before ten o' clock, I had been on my bed 
re-reading a book on Poke'mon care, and just about ready to go to bed when I 
heard the front door shut, and my father shout my name.
I cringed, and fear began to seep into me even though he hadn't sounded 
exactly angry.
But that rarely meant anything.
What now?, I thought with fear. I got up off my bed and began to head down 
to the living room.
I guess I should've figured something had been wrong when he stepped outside 
to speak with Mrs. Leigh for over an hour. I should've also figured Mrs. 
Leigh had come to say something about me to my father. Only what did I do? 
What had I done now?
I sucked in my fear as I entered the living room. I had learned a long time 
ago that if you show your predator you're afraid, then you most certainly 
will get hurt.
Standing beside the couch was Dad. He looked pretty calm, but I wasn't about 
to trust him. I stood frozen on the last step of the staircase, holding onto 
the banister as though I were a little girl.
"Yes, Daddy?" I asked in a small voice.
"Come here," he said as he motioned towards the couch, "I want to discuss 
something with you."
I eyed him suspiciously. To say he didn't know I was about to pee in my 
shorts from fear at that point would probably be the biggest lie ever told, 
because he knew I was terrorfied from where I stood. But that didn't stop 
him.
"Come here." he said more firmly. I felt a tension in the air. The TV began 
to play a Ford commercial. It went unnoticed, however, by Dad. I gulped and 
began to walk to the couch slowly and cautiously, watching his every move 
carefully, so that if he decided to hit me, I wouldn't be caught off-guard 
by his fist. It hurt more that way, somehow.
I made it to the couch, and he just stood there beside it, watching me 
calmly.
"Sit." he said.
And I sat down slowly, positive now that Mrs. Leigh had made up some 
terrible lie about me and had told my father. The reason why he had been 
outside so long was because she was discussing how he should have a firmer 
hand over me, and how he should punish me for whatever I did wrong instead 
of just letting me off the hook . . .which, in reality, he never did.
Damn you, Mrs. Leigh, I thought with hatred as I helplessly awaited whatever 
abuse was about to come.
I kept my eyes on the floor as Dad sat down in the recliner to the left of 
the couch where I was sitting, and then I raised my eyes to his. I 
immediately noticed he was sober. Wow. That was unusual . . .but now he'd 
have more accuracy on his aim once he got angry at me.
"Now," he said, speaking to me as though I were stupid, "I'm going to ask 
you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me, you hear?"
"Yes, sir," I said as strongly as I could, afraid but knowing that if I 
didn't look him in the eye, he'd accuse me of lying right off the start, and 
it'd be all over for me.
"That's good," he replied, "And be a good girl until this is over, you hear 
me?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, feeling like some sort of robot.
"Now . . ." he said plainly, "Is it true that this morning, a teenage boy 
came up to your window, and you spoke to him?"
That sent of fireworks of anger within me. From where I sat, I clenched my 
teeth together and dug my nails deep into my plams to help control my anger.
I couldn't believe it. It all made sense then. Mrs. Leigh knew that my 
father didn't like me to talk to boys, and so she spied on me speaking to 
Justin this morning, and that's what she had just finished discussing with 
him. Flames stoked by pure fury were burning in my heart. My privacy had 
been betrayed!
"Is it true?" Dad repeated, growing impatient.
I swallowed, "Yes, Dad," I said softly, "But it's not how Mrs. Leigh told 
you it was."
Dad suddenly looked furious. He jumped to his feet, "So, you did speak to 
that teenage boy next door. He was at your window--probably peeking in, 
trying to see what he could. That's the only thing teenage boys are after, 
and you were going to let him have it."
"Dad," I pleaded, "No, it's not like that. You see, Justin--"
"I have it on good authority," Dad said, his voice rising, "that you 
discussed sex with this boy. With Justin Dearborn, from next door. Is this 
true?"
My mouth dropped open. I was completely at a loss for why Mrs. Leigh would 
ever make up such an unbelievable lie, and especially one that would get me 
into immense trouble.
I shook my head, "No, Dad, thaft part's not true." I said pleadingly, 
"Justin would never think about--"
"He said that your "age and financial standing" didn't matter," Dad said 
angerily, "I should've known that teenage boy of Eddie's would try something 
on you when I was gone, but I could never had imagined that you would've 
actually had let him--"
"Nothing like that ever happened," I said as truthfully as I could, "He just 
came over to tell me that they were going to give away Poke'mon for 
beginning trainers at the civic center tomorrow. I was happy, and I thanked 
him, then we both went to school--"
"Mrs. Leigh said you two walked to school together," he said angerily, "I 
can't believe that a girl can be so stupid. I can't believe you're not even 
fourteen and already thinking about having--"
"I'm not thinking about it!" I shouted as I stood up, tired of taking all 
this crap, "Justin and I are only friends! We don't care about that! We're 
not even boyfriend and girlfriend! We're just friends!" I shouted into his 
stupid face, "It doesn't matter what that stupid hypocrite Mrs. Leigh said! 
You know she hates me, and tries to get me into trouble--"
Dad's fist in my jaw was what cut me off. I felt a burning pain radiating 
from my jaw before I even saw Dad move an inch.
I let out a cry of shock, stumbled to the left, and ended up falling 
sideways on the floor. My hand slammed down on the remote, and the volume of 
the television began to rise drastically.
"I don't give a damn!" he shouted loudly, and I knew that the Dearborn's 
could probably hear us by now, and most certainly Justin, "You're too young 
to hang around boys. You stay the hell away from that pervert, or if you 
turn up pregnant, I'm not going to do anything for you!"
"Like you would!" I screamed, sobbing, as he kicked me squared in the side. 
The only thing I could see clearly were the stars in my eyes at this point.
"I'll kill you if I see you with him," Dad continued, "I'm gonna tell his 
parents, too, to keep their damned boy away from my daughter."
"I don't care what you do!" I screamed in anger, "He's my friend, and I'm 
not going to ditch him just because you're afraid you're going to have to 
loose money if something happens to me! You can't tear us apart, you--"
Then, my father picked me up by my hair. I whimpered as pain shot through my 
scalp and down my neck.
"I'm gonna call them right now," he said as he started pulling me towards 
the phone by my hair. I was being dragged, and I bumped into the edge of a 
table, and got several rugburns.
He picked up the phone, and cursed when he couldn't remember the number.
"8657!" I shouted in a strange, crazy voice. I added with a laugh, "I talk 
to him on the phone all the time."
He kicked me again, dialed the number, and waited for a moment for someone 
to answer it. Apparently someone did, and whoever it was was about to get 
quite a shock, but I couldn't stop it.
"Hello?" Dad said gruffily, "Yeah? Well, my daughter's got something to say 
to you, Justin."
Then, he completely pulled me to my feet by grabbing my hair and jerking it 
up. He shoved my face into the phone.
"Are you crazy?" I said, sobbing, "You can't make me say anything to him!"
"Say it!" Dad shouted back. He pulled my hair, causing my eyes to water in 
pain.
"Dad says I can't hang around you anymore!" I cried, giving in and 
teary-eyed with pain, but knowing Justin wouldn't take what I was saying 
seriouly because it was clear my father was forcing me to it, "He says 
you're only after one thing--either stay away, or regret it!" then Dad let 
go of my hair and I fell to the floor.
Then my lights went out.

That's what happened.
As for how I ended up in my bed. . .I don't know. I guess it doesn't really 
matter. All that mattered was I was in one piece . . .which, in a sense, I 
suppose I wasn't, but physically, yes, I was okay.
So by know, I guess you've got a pretty good idea on what my life is like, 
huh? Good.
"Mrs. Leigh, you're going to hell," I said absently as I scrubbed at a blood 
stain on the floor that I knew must've been mine. It had probably come from 
my mouth the night before when Dad punched me in the jaw, "And if Satan 
doesn't want you, I'll just give you a little push inside and lock the gates 
behind you."
". . . .mysterious individuals seen at night . . ." droned the television.
"Yeah," I said absently, "But it doesn't matter. I'm going to become a 
Poke'mon trainer this afternoon, and Dad's not even gonna stop me," I meant 
that. I had a pretty good idea that Dad hadn't listened to me when I 
practically told him about it . . .he had been too busy going on about how 
Justin was pervert, and "only wanted one thing", and I had given it to him. 
Just the thought of how ignorant my Dad was made me sick! But at least maybe 
it had saved me this one time. Now I could sneak out of the house around 
three-forty-five and head to the Poke'mon Center and get things in order.
But not without a quick word to Justin first, though, I decided with a 
smile.
". . . .and now, it's time for our daily advice on Poke'mon Care with Nurse 
Joy. . . ."
This caught my attention, and I stopped scrubbing the floor and looked up at 
the television, not wanting to miss a single bit of information.
Surprisingly, the television showed Nurse Joy with a stern face. I 
immediately noticed this was unusual. Nurse Joy was usually happy and 
cheerful when she was doing the daily segment on Poke'mon Care. but now she 
looked very solemn and tired. Something about seeing her like that sort of 
made me sad.
"Hello, Poke'mon adorers of all ages," she said softly, "Today, I'd like to 
focus on something that's beginning to turn into a really serious problem 
among Poke'mon trainers . . ." she sighed, and remained silent for a moment, 
looking at the floor. Then she looked back towards the camera, "Lately, 
there's been a large increase in the number of stolen Poke'mon, and at the 
same time, a larger increase in the numbers of crimes commited with 
Poke'mon." The screen suddenly began to show pictures of crimes from not too 
long ago that had been commited with Poke'mon. Burnt buildings, avalanches, 
forest fires, flooded towns, stores that had been violently broken into . . 
.meanwhile, Nurse Joy's voice spoke in the foreground, "It's no longer truly 
safe for Poke'mon and Poke'mon trainers anymore. Team Rocket, the notorious 
organization dedicated to stealing Poke'mon and using them to commit crimes, 
is the main cause. Now, all you Poke'mon trainers, and those planning to 
become Poke'mon trainers, this message mainly goes out to you: keep close to 
your Poke'mon at all times. Never, ever let them out of your sight. When 
they're out of their Poke'balls, keep them near you, and never leave your 
Poke'balls unwatched.", then, the camera focused on her again, showing her 
wearied face once more, "The Poke'mon that Team Rocket steal often end up 
living horrible lives. They get abused, and aren't supplied with proper 
training. Many Poke'mon die in their possession, as well. Police Departments 
all over the world are working very hard to bring down this organization and 
stop their abuse of Poke'mon, but so far, their locations can't be traced. 
So keep a look-out for them, and protect your Poke'mon as well as you 
possibly can." then, Nurse Joy's face seemed to brighten up a notch, "Thank 
you, and good luck to those of you who plan on recieving your first Poke'mon 
this afternoon. I'm looking forward to it, and so are all of the Poke'mon 
here."
Then the newscast abruptly went to a commercial.
I then got back to work, thinking all the while.
I had been saddened by that report . . .and I was now a little bit afraid. 
What if a Team Rocket member tried to steal one of my Poke'mon? What would I 
do? There would be nothing I could do to stop them . . . they'd just take my 
Poke'mon like they'd take candy from a baby! But no . . .I would have to 
fight back, even if it meant I would be left with more serious injuries than 
I'd be left with after a fight with Dad.
"Adrenaline makes you defend yourself better, anyway," I said and hour later 
as I finished mopping the floor. I put the mop back in the closet underneath 
the stairs and walked back towards my room.
I sat and began to read a particularly interesting novel that went by the 
name of "From a Buick 8" by Stephen King for awhile, and eventually I came 
down with a small headache. I decided to take some tylenol, and then nap 
shortly.
Unfortunately, it wasn't a short nap.
I woke to the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, and my drowsiness 
disappeared immediately. I looked at my alarm clock and it read two thirty 
five. I gasped as I jumped to my feet and looked out the window. Sure 
enough, I saw my father in his black toyota pulling into the driveway, home 
from work especially early. I felt like screaming.
For a moment I didn't know what to do, then I decided on one simple, pure 
plan. Undoubtly the only plan that would work at this point.
I was going to run away.
And I was going to escape out my bedroom window.
Absurd? Not really. More like desperate. I hadn't set my alarm clock . . .I 
hadn't even been truly sleepy when I decided to take that nap, but I had 
ended up sleeping for almost five hours. Five crucial hours. But I didn't 
have time to dwell on that. I needed to get out of the house, and I needed 
to do it quick--I had left the television on, and Dad would immediately know 
I was home. And he would be angry I wasn't in school. And I would get beaten 
if I was caught. So I sprang into action.
I reached for my backpack, paused, and then dumped everything out of it. My 
textbooks and folders landed on the floor with a loud smack, and I ran right 
over them, not even giving them a second thought.
I threw my backpack on the bed and ran over to my dresser in two steps. I 
hastily pulled out two pairs of socks, and two pairs of the unmentionables 
and threw them into the bag. I ran over to my closet and grabbed two 
t-shirts and two pairs of jeans without looking at them. I threw them into 
my bag, too.
Then, I dropped myself to the floor and pulled an envelope out from under 
the mattress of my bed. I quickly checked it's contents--two hundred eighty 
dollars and sixty-seven cents. I jumped to my feet and threw it into my 
backpack as well. I grabbed my two Poke'mon information books and "From a 
Buick 8" and threw them in, amongst the jumbled mess inside.
I quickly looked around the room, trying to scout out anything else I might 
need, or had forgotten. I couldn't think of anything. Suddenly, I heard the 
front door slam shut. Dad was now in the house.
I bit my bottom lip in distress. Luckily, I had left the television's volume 
down low, so it would take a few extra moments for my Dad to notice it was 
on. Funny how the small things worked out.
Now was the only open time frame I would get, and in this short amount of 
time, I had to pry my window open, jump out, and run. Where? I didn't know, 
but I was pretty sure I'd know where once I jumped through my window and was 
faced with the open air.
I ran to my window, jammed my fingers underneath the little tab that would 
make it open, and I pushed it upwards as quickly and carefully as I could. 
In the entrance hallway of the house, I could hear Dad walking towards the 
living room. This sent off a panic flare in my brain. He would be entering 
the living room in less than ten seconds at the very absolute most.
Finally, I got the window all the way up. I let out a sigh of relief, and 
then a sudden blast of cold air blew into my room. It was now very cold 
outside. I quickly turned around and grabbed the thin gray coat that was 
hanging off one of the poles of my bed, then I grabbed my surprisingly light 
backpack, pausing for a moment to zip it up hastily. Suddenly, in the living 
room, I heard my father's footsteps halt. Then came the sound I had been 
dreading.
"Girl, if you're in this house instead of at school, then you're about to be 
in a HEAP of trouble!" he bellowed. I then heard heavy footsteps coming 
towards my room.
I ran up to my window and closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. Then I 
threw one leg out of the window, and then the other, and then I hopped out, 
tripping and landing on my bottom. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my backpack 
and ran faster than I had ever ran before, heading west towards the curb of 
Spring St. two blocks down where the schoolbus would be dropping off 
students in about an hour. I wanted to meet up with Justin when he was 
dropped off there from highschool. I wanted the comforting words of a 
friend.
Behind me, as I ran, I heard my father bellowing loudly. I didn't have to 
slow down or turn around to see that he was yelling at me with his head 
stuck out of my open bedroom window.
I never slowed down. I only noticed how cold everything was.
----

Metallica_Worshipper: Didja like it? Didja, didja?! E-mail me, please . . 
.please! Even if you HATED it with all your soul, e-mail me! I want to know 
if people like it . . .so I can send in the second part once I'm finished 
with it! I sure hope you liked it . . .