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[Rachael's POV]
I followed Renae to her room, hoping against hope itself that she wouldn't ask about the bruise on my neck. The one bruise i couldn't cover up. "Wow," she said once we were in her room. "To think, all these years, I had a sister I never knew about. Although it seems that I'm lucky not to have known my, er, well, our, dad. Not at all what I had imagined he'd look like. Or smell like, for that matter." She pinched her nose as she said the last part, like she had just smelled a dirty gym sock that hadn't been washed in weeks. "Yea, I know," was all I could manage to say. "He drinks, doesn't he?" I nodded. "Figured so. The guy reeks like molding gym socks. So tell me. When he's drunk, does he hit you?" I nodded again, wincing as she touched the bruise on my neck. "Did he do this to you?" I only nodded my head in response. I couldn't speak, for fear I would lose control and the tears I felt building up would begin to fall. "Do they tease you about it at school?" I shook my head. "Hmm. I would've thought they would have, mean as some of them are. I'd also figure the teachers would've said something, though. Like, maybe, asking if you were okay or what had happened." "Yeah, I know. Doesn't seem like anyone really notices, though," I managed to say quietly. "Yeah. That, or they just don't care." Renae added. Right after she spoke, we heard a loud slam. Renae merely rolled her eyes, no trace of worry in her features. "Mom must 'need time to think' in her room. She does that when her 'friends' come to visit," she said, using air quotes on parts of it for emphasis. "How often does that happen?" I asked, curious now. "Every week, twice a week. Sometimes three times. She has a lot of high-ranked acquaintances. A lot of them come by for a visit now and then. Some to discuss business. Others just for entertainment. And occasionally there are a few that try to ask for her hand..." she trailed off. I guessed that wasn't a pleasant memory. She sighed before continuing. "I prefer to have nothing to do with it all, though. Especially since that one guy's son started tagging along. He always looks at me like I'm some prize to be desired. I hate it." She paused for a few seconds, taking a breath. I guessed it was to calm herself back down again. "So tell me," Renae began again. The words "please don't ask about how I got the bruise" repeated in my head like a mantra. Unfortunately, she did the opposite of what I was hoping for. She pointed to the purple and blue mark on my skin and asked, "how'd it happen?". "Um..." I started. "Are you sure you really want to know?" She nodded. "Hence why I asked." I sighed. "Do you swear not to tell anyone? Including your, er, our, mom?" She pretended to draw an "x" over her chest. "Cross my heart, hope to drop Kyle Matthews off the face of the Earth." I looked at her questioningly. "Oh, Kyle Matthews is the guy's son I told you about earlier. The one who always ogled me," she added. "Now tell me." I sighed and tried to think of how to begin. "Well, I've never told anyone this. But, when I was little, my dad used to tell me that I was a useless lump of garbage, and always claimed he had forgotten any promises he ever made. But that was as far as it went. At least for the first few years. When I turned seven, he told me I looked more and more like my worthless mother every day. Then he'd ask me if I had any idea how much that hurt him. Being only seven years old, and never having known my mother or even seen a picture of her, of course I had no idea. It was after that day that his drinking began to get worse, and he began physically abusing me." I heard her gasp, but continued. "He never gave a reason for hitting me. He just did it. I never understood why. I had never disobeyed him. I always came straight home from school like he'd asked. I just wished he would stop. By the time I was nine, I'd learned to stay as far from him as I could when he was like that. I had to learn to fend for myself. I'd taught myself how to cook and how to do my own laundry by ten years old. But that doesn't mean the abuse stopped there." I paused and pointed to the dicolored patch of skin on my neck. "This isn't the only one I have. It's just the only one I can't cover up." I heard her gasp again and felt her take my hand in hers. "So, there are others?" I could only nod in response. It felt good to finally tell someone about my past, horrific as it was.