Cw Child Abuse - Blog Posts

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2 months ago

Prologue - Blood Stains Don't Wash Off

Tw: mentions of abuse, and violence. Dead dove, do not eat.

There are countless ways to avoid violence. But avoidance doesn't mean survival.

Violence is stitched into the seams of existence — a pulse running beneath every century, every age. It thrives, adapts, becomes more creative, more cruel. We like to pretend we are better than our past, but reality doesn't flinch under the weight of our illusions. Even in a world infused with magic, people are still monsters. And monsters don't need fangs or claws. Sometimes, they wear the faces of your neighbors. Or your own family.

Hagarin was not the victim that day.

She was the witness.

A child, too young to spell her own name properly, stood paralyzed in the doorway as her mother's body became a canvas for violence. A fist to the ribs, a boot to the spine. Blood, spit, sobs. The kind of sounds that become permanent residents in your skull. Hagarin clamped her small hands over her eyes, praying that darkness would protect her, but the sharp metallic click of a pistol tore through the air.

"Watch."

A command. Not a plea. A curse.

She was forced to see it all — her mother's skin bruised into unrecognizable shades, her breath turned into shallow gasps until there was no breath left to take.

Hagarin's mother died that night, leaving behind three little girls and a silence too loud to bear.

In a world glutted with magic, you'd think there would be a spell for justice. But magic didn't save her. Magic was a luxury — one used more often to destroy than to heal. Power and violence walk hand in hand like childhood friends, both feeding off each other's hunger. Hagarin understood this at an age when most children only understand fairy tales.

Those who crave chaos? They are not misguided souls. They are predators, drunk on their own sense of invincibility, poisoning everything they touch. They rip the seams of peace just to see what spills out.

And Hagarin? She learned young that survival is not a right — it's a skill.

At seven years old, she became a mother, a protector, a builder of shelters, a scavenger of scraps. She wasn't good at any of it. But no one else was left to try.

She used magic to knock down trees because her hands were too weak. She built a shack with trembling fingers and whispered prayers that the walls would hold for at least one night. Her sisters clung to each other for warmth, while Hagarin stood guard at the entrance, eyes fixed on the sky. The moon was too bright — like it was exposing their helplessness for all the world to see.

That night, her lips moved in silent prayer — not to gods, but to whatever force was out there listening.

"Please. Let me be strong enough. Just for them. Even if it breaks me."

Tears traced down her dirt-streaked face, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel the weight of what had been taken from her. But grief is a luxury you can't afford when you're responsible for someone else's survival.

They walked for days — blistered feet on broken ground — until the steel skyline of Aloy City appeared like a mirage in the distance. Aloy, the City of Metals. A place where survival was possible, but only if you were useful.

"Are we almost there?" the youngest sister asked, her voice soft from exhaustion.

Hagarin squeezed her hand. "Just five more hours." She wasn't sure if that was true. But hope tastes better when you lie with confidence.

"You're just guessing," Hanari, her twin, muttered.

"Obviously." Hagarin shrugged.

Hanari, loud and bright despite the darkness they carried, was everything Hagarin was not. They bickered like breathing — every argument a strange lifeline that reminded them both they were still alive. Still sisters.

Aloy was both salvation and sentence. A city where children like them became projects — charity cases processed and filed into the system. At the help center, they sat across from a woman who asked too many questions with too soft a voice. What happened to your parents? What did you see? How do you feel?

Hagarin wanted to scream. Instead, she said nothing. Hanari did all the talking — filling the silence with half-truths and protective lies, all while Hagarin's hands dug crescent moons into her palms beneath the table.

When they were placed onto a bus, bound for an orphanage disguised as a "facility," Hagarin didn't cry. She just stared out the window, watching her reflection blur against the world passing by.

Life at the facility was not kind, but it was stable — which was almost the same thing. They were clothed, taught to read, trained to summon spells from nothing but breath and willpower. Time passed, and they grew taller, sharper, harder. But Hanari never lost her brightness. The little sister never lost her innocence.

And Hagarin never lost the weight in her chest — the cold iron reminder that peace is temporary, and safety is always conditional.

She watched from the window as Hanari and their sister chased each other through the grass, laughing like the world hadn't tried to crush them under its boot.

For a moment, Hagarin let herself believe it was possible — that they could outrun the ghosts, the memories, the trauma woven into their bones.

But only for a moment.

Because Hagarin knew better than anyone: The past never stays buried.

And the worst monsters aren't the ones hiding in shadows. They're the ones smiling in the light.

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2,731 words.

Next chapter: Chapter 1: Present time

Natalia Grace, from a victim of Neglect and Narcissistic Abuse

The case of Natalia Grace hits home incredibly hard for me. It occurred in my home state, in very familiar locations.

She also is only one year older than I am. I grew up parallel to her. And when she was alone in that apartment at age 9, struggling to care for herself because no one ever taught her, I was in the middle of my parents’ horrific divorce also struggling to care for myself because no one was there to teach me.

Comments were made towards me around that time about how I hardly ever brushed my hair, I didn’t take a shower until I was told, I didn’t know I needed a bra, I wore pajamas to school, I never brushed my teeth. And when I heard the neighbors comment about how she smelled and her hair was dirty and she would come into their houses only looking for something to eat, I immediately thought fuck, it’s because she’s a kid! And also disabled, even if she were an adult she can’t fucking care for herself! And the neighbors that thought she was creepy or annoying, I got those comments too. People wanted away from me because at age 9 all I wanted to talk about was Warrior Cats or My Little Pony or Minecraft, nothing else.

The most important lesson I’ve learned in my adult life is that nothing is taught. Everything, common sense and basic self care, everything must be taught to a child. And people who don’t know how to do those things almost always come from neglect or abuse. I suffered neglect. Natalia suffered both.

And when I saw the clip of Michael Barnett interrogating her about the social worker and the donuts, that was eerily similar to the rants my step mom would go on about my dirty laundry or me drinking her orange juice. Abusive Narcissists like to put you down about the stupidest, smallest things. And there’s nothing you can say to stop it, you just have to sit there. When she was sitting in silence, just blinking at him, saying “I don’t know”, I felt that. Because I have been there.

I’ve blocked a lot of what I’ve experienced out, just because that’s what happens when you’re ill. Occasionally I’ll have moments of clarity though, when I remember, oh this horrible thing happened! Or I should know how to do this! And I realize why I don’t. I’m still struggling to keep up with my peers in all areas. I can’t imagine also being beaten, physically punished, abandoned, and then having to see your abusers get away with it. And on top of all that - being physically disabled.

There is no fucking doubt about this. Natalia Grace was born in 2003, proven by genetic evidence and dental records and BY HER BIRTH MOTHER. She was 9 years old when she was left abandoned in that apartment. And Michael Barnett and Kristine Barnett are monsters. I believe that no matter what kind of afterlife exists, they will be punished for what they’ve done.