My biological father died when I was two months old. My mother was raw and vulnerable, and she fell for a man named Ethan when I reached my first half birthday.

Ethan always hated me. He hated that I wasn't like other Grelves. That my ears were flat. That my nose didn't turn up as well. That my freckles had nothing to do with my birth month. 

Then, when I was fourteen, my mother passed. It was quiet, she was with my uncle at the time. 

Ethan blamed me for his wife's death. 

He beat me with broomsticks, candles, his ugly guitar, whatever he could get his hands on when I was in twelve feet of him.

Then, one day, when I was fifteen, he took me to the woods. He blindfolded me and tied me to a tree, then ran off. 

That's where I am right now.

Tied to a tree.

Blindfolded. 

For the past four hours.