A/N Ha, I am beyond tired, so I didn't bother rereading this chapter. Please bear with me. I might update a couple times this week cuz of break. BUT I NEED SOME NEW IDEAS!!! Okay, enjoy :)

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“You ungrateful wench!” he screams as he threw me against the wall. “First, you disobey me and become a pathetic idol! Then you dishonor us with your lack of talent.” With every word, he slammed my head again and again into the wall. “We took you back in when you came to our doorstep with nothing but your pitiful face! Yet, you are still an ungrateful b itch!” He emphasizes the last word with a kick to my stomach that leaves me gasping for breath.

My mother does nothing but watch with dark eyes. She has no need to feel sorry for me. She has no reason to ask my father to stop. I brought this upon myself. What my father says is true.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the next punch. One, two, three.

Nothing happens. I can hear his labored breathing; he is trying to control himself. Bless him.

But this has happened far too many times and I know that his temper will fail him. And I am right because the next thing I know, the fingers of my right hand are being stomped upon. Though I fight to not pull away, I can hear the bones cracking and my mind darkens. Beads of sweat roll down my forehead as I try to absorb all the pain. Much worse has happened.

Knowing the course of things, I let myself fall asleep despite the fact that I probably have a bad concussion. Sure enough, I wake up a few moments later and my parents are gone, satisfied, I hope. As I predicted, my head starts to painfully throb, not due to the neglect it faced but because of an inevitable hangover. Yes, I wasn’t completely sober when I said those things to my daddy.

“ you Dad! You have no idea what I’m going through so leave me the alone!” I screamed when he asked me if I was okay. I walked out of lounge and into the kitchen, determined to get pour myself another shot of soju. Just as I bring the alcohol to my desiring lips, he enters as well. I shove the cup behind my back, and my anger boils harder with every ticking second. “WHAT THE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” “Yeonie! Watch your tongue! I just want to understand, what in the world is bugging you? And are YOU DRINKIN?!” He yelled. “What’s it to you?” I retaliated as I boldly drank the soju in one shot, then smacked my lips loudly as if to rub my doings in his face. “You wanna know my problem, Dad? Do you really want to know? Well, go look into a ing mirror. You see, dear dad. You are the problem. You and my wonderful mother. Thanks to you tards, all the ambition I was born with is wasted. Thanks to you s h i theads, I have a hideous face and a terrible voice. You’re disgusting genes ruined my life before I took my first breath! Out of all the parents in the world, I was stuck with YOU GUYS. That is what my problem is. Satisfied?”

I spilled my anxieties out, but the moment the last word of hatred left my tongue, I was overcome with shame and embarrassment. My parents may not have had the softest temper, but they were always there for me.

So with ignominy, I took the first slap to my face.

When I open my eyes, the light invades my mind, sending pulsing agony through my nerves. I look to my right and see the damage. I am lying in a small pool of blood. The smell and taste of iron is overwhelming. My right hand is distorted in such a way that I have no control over my fingers. It was as if someone has jumbled around the bones just to confuse me.

I struggle to get up and limp toward my room, holding onto the wall for support. I lie down on my bed and dwell over my life, my past and future. What should I do? The millions of thought that whizz though my mind exhaust me and I have fallen asleep. Unfortunately for me, not even in sleep can I escape this life.

I dream of my childhood. The infinite amount of days I saw my father lose his temper on my mother, and then eventually, on me. I relive the pain I endured as he abused me over the years. The constant beatings, the pulling of hair to the point where I had bald spots, the bruises that inked green and blue across my skin. Ironically, the bruises were the exact shade of my favorite colors. Green and Blue. Blue and Green. The colors that defined me.

I will admit that the reason I chose to be a dancer was simply to cover up the bruises. As the best dancer of the group, it was obviously I would get hurt; an easy way to disguise the ugly bruises that lasted for weeks.

Fog flows through those memories and I now I dream of my life with SNSD.

I am the ugly one. I am the one no one notices. I am unnecessary. I am the one who seduced SM personnel into giving me a place in the group. Even the members think that.

I am the one and only, most pathetic, the wretched, Hyoyeon.

Honestly, I was somewhat relieved when the CEO told us that our contract had been terminated. Even we were aware of the ‘slave contracts’. We wouldn’t have been able to leave until we were wrinkly and old unless the contract was terminated. Lately, I had been wanting to disappear through the cracks, wanting to free myself from the worst mistake of my life. I was done living the life of a pitied idol.

But I didn’t think things through, I never do. I didn’t realize how fast the money would run out. I had no formal education, I barely graduated high school. I couldn’t get a job. I had no choice but to go back to the tiny piece of hell I used to call home.

I am in a state of conscious unconsciousness. I am aware that I am asleep. I am aware of what I am thinking about. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot wake up, not can I fall into a peaceful sleep. Inevitably, I live through another few hours of the nightmarish memories that make up my life.

When the sunshine pours into my room the next morning, I know what I am going to do. I am going to leave. I will endure the streets. I will use my undiscovered wits to survive. With those thought, I pack a sufficient amount of my things and ready myself for a new adventure.

One step through the door and I am pulled back in by the hair.

“What the HELL are you doing?” yells my father, with a slap to my face.

“I am leaving, Daddy. It’s best for everyone. I don’t want to trouble you anymore.”

“You don’t want to trouble me? Ha, you put this family in a life long hell when you disobeyed me and joined that group of Goddamn bit ches!”

I can smell the alcohol on his breath. He is drunk. The worst abuse I’ve faced occurred when he was drunk. I am scared but I keep a steady voice.

“Dad, if I leave, you will never have to deal with me again. You will be at peace.”

My father refuses to listen to me. I find myself once again being yanked by the hair and thrown to the wall.

“Bit ch! You leave and get or become a ing e! You think that will not cause us trouble? Are you planning on dishonoring this family even more?”

I am being kicked and punched. I will survive.

I am being smashed and attacked. I will endure.

Objects are being thrown randomly at me. Yesterday’s bruises are sprouting their own. Green and blue blotches blossom across my body. After being worn out again and again, bruises are like second nature to my body.

The pain is excruciating, but I cannot cry. Every moan or yelp I make further infuriates my father. This is the worst of the worst I’ve faced.

But now I can’t help it. I scream at every strike. I flay and wail. My father continues to hit me. Now books and chairs are being flung at me.

I am bleeding and bruising and breaking. I am pretty sure my ribs cracked a few seconds ago. Oh, there goes my collarbone.

How do exactly can I put this pain to words? It is impossible.

A flowerpot is dropped onto my shattered body. On top of all the blood and pieces of skin, I am now covered in dirt and pottery shards.

I am left lying in a heap of broken furniture and my remains. My father even took the liberty of taking a piss on the pile, before finally leaving. I’m tired and have been drained of all energy. It’s exhausting to even open my eyes. But no. I cannot give up. I cannot be defeated like this.

I stand up on my broken legs and walk with dignity towards the door. I pick up my pack with a sprained hand on a dislocated arm and proudly swing it across my shoulder onto a broken back. I probably look far worse then I imagine, but I don’t give a s h i t. Right now, I stand tall and proud.

I step out of the door and absorb the beautiful sun. But then the excessiveness of my movements overcome me and I collapse onto the rough and hard road.

I lay there, but this time I don’t even have the mental willpower to try to get up. Instead, I stare at my right arm. The bones are clearly sticking out, the elbow has been twisted, and the hand is nothing more than a mere chunk of meat. But too me, it’s beautiful.

I slowly die, in my own humble way, staring at the exquisite green and blue patterns on my arm as I slip away.

A body of a girl was found in the middle of the road on Saturday afternoon. It is clear that this person suffered severe abuse and has been disfigured beyond recognition. If anyone has any information, the police ask you to please come forward.