A reader with abusive parents 😭😭😭 like instead of being completely traumatized they are are numb because they multiple times almost died by the hand of their own parents

So due to mental health issues i will put the writing in

It was one of those mornings where waking up felt too difficult.I was thankful I’d done braids — I didn’t feel like doing anything more than the strict necesary.What was the point of trying to look good when it never worked anyway?I felt ridiculous. Disgusting for even trying.When I finally gathered enough energy, I managed to get out of bed and take a shower. One of the best things about living in the manor was probably the fact that we didn’t have to share a bathroom, unlike back home.

When I was done, I applied lotion and got dressed. My chest felt tight — anxious. Dick was back, and I really hoped I wouldn’t run into him.A few years ago, I would’ve been so happy. I would’ve hoped that this time, maybe I’d catch his attention. He was such a good big brother — at least that’s what everyone said. I saw how he treated the others, and Dean always spoke well of him.

I usually would keep to myself, but I wanted his affection from the start. I tried doing the things Dean told me to do with him — the activities, the small things — but nothing worked. He was always busy when it came to me .but I kept pushing. And pushing.

Untill , I pushed too far, he snapped.“Why do you have to be so damn clingy can't you see that you're doing too much?”He never apologized and i never brougth it again.

I didn’t say anything at his outburst . I just walked away and went to my room. I refused to let him see my tears.

He never apologized, and I stopped trying — even though, for a long time, I still hoped he’d reach out. But he never did. The only times we’d interact were those few moments when he tried to be polite, forcing small talk when I walked into a room — just for the mood to instantly die for everybody else.

After a while, he stopped even acknowledging my existence.

The kitchen was filled with my sister’s laughter. It was way too early for that.When I entered, I expected to see her on her phone, but instead, I saw her and Dick sitting close, laughing as he cracked jokes.

Dean greeted me with a smile, and I responded with a small nod.Dick turned around and raised an eyebrow when he saw me. He opened his mouth, like he was about to say something, but closed it right away.A knot formed in my stomach.

Dean kept laughing, like nothing was wrong — like she didn’t see the way my whole body went tense.Maybe she didn’t. Or maybe she was pretending not to. I didn’t blame her. She always tried to keep things normal, even when it hurt.

I sat at the counter, quietly. Alfred said good morning, and I gave him a small smile, forcing the words out before they could choke me.

Dick’s voice kept echoing in the back of my head — loud even when he wasn’t talking to me. It was like the air itself got colder when he was in the same room.

He looked at me again, for a second — then looked away. Like I was something he didn’t want to deal with.

Dean noticed this time. I could tell by the way her smile faltered.She excused herself, saying she had to grab something upstairs. I didn’t move. I didn’t trust my voice not to crack if I said anything.

When she came back, Dick was gone.She looked at me, sighed, and leaned against the counter beside me.“You know he’s just... bad at dealing with people,” she said softly, trying to sound casual.

I laughed — a dry, humorless sound.“Yeah, sure. Must be why he only talks to everyone else just fine.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.I knew she meant well. She always did.Dean’s the kind of person who tries to fix everything, even when it’s not her mess.

“Maybe you should try talking to him,” she said after a pause.I looked at her like she’d lost her mind.“Dean, he doesn’t even look at me.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but I didn’t let her.“It’s fine. Really. I’m used to it.”It was a lie, and we both knew it.

She stared at me for a long moment before sighing again and pressing a kiss to the top of my head.“You shouldn’t have to be.”

When she left, I sat there for a while, staring at the empty chair where Dick had been sitting. The one that still smelled faintly like his cologne.And I hated that I noticed.

After breakfast, I checked on myself one last time before going to school.I didn’t take the car with the others — for obvious reasons.I took the bus, sometimes the subway.

I must’ve looked weird in that uniform, from one of Gotham’s most prestigious schools — the kind that probably cost more than what most people would make after years of working hard.Hell, probably more than what my mom’s parents ever gave her, and they were doing more than fine.

It felt dystopian — having nothing, and suddenly being thrown into the lifestyle of less than one percent of the planet.I felt wrong.

The ride to school was quiet. I let SZA fill my ears so I didn’t have to think — or feel everyone’s eyes on me.

I kept my head down, eyes on the floor. Because I felt small. Invisible. Like I didn’t deserve to take up space.Looking anyone in the eye made me feel exposed — seen — like they could see all the ways I was so wrong.

When the bus stopped in front of the school, I got off last.The gates were too tall, too shiny. The walls too clean.Everything screamed money and privilege.And me — just me — I felt like a shadow sneaking into a world that would rather I wasn’t here.

I walked through the courtyard, shoulders hunched, bag clutched tight.Groups formed like clockwork — laughing, talking, showing off, measuring each other’s worth.I passed them without looking, pretending my smallness made me invisible.I felt their eyes anyway, burning through me.

My chest tightened. My stomach knotted.

I went straight to my locker, hands shaking.Someone brushed past me hard enough to make me drop my notebook.No apology. Just a laugh.

I bent down, grabbed it, and held it close like a shield.For a second, I thought about just walking out.Going back home. Skipping the whole day.But home didn’t feel like home either.

I pinched my arm, angry even at the thought.

Science was supposed to be the one class that didn’t make me want to disappear.I liked it — not the teacher, not the smell of burnt coffee and bleach — but the logic of it.Reactions made sense. Equations didn’t judge. Molecules didn’t look at you and decide you didn’t belong.

I wasn’t the best in the class, but I was good enough. My grades were steady — never too high, never low enough to draw attention. I didn’t care to prove anything. I just wanted to learn, quietly, without anyone breathing down my neck.

Mr. Langley had other plans, apparently.He was the kind of teacher who thought being “old school” made him wise.He liked calling on the same boys every day — the loud ones who’d joke their way through wrong answers and still get a “good effort.”If I answered something right, he’d just hum, like I got lucky. Like I was a guest who overstayed her welcome.

He’d always say things like, “girls have such neat handwriting — you’ll make good lab assistants someday.”As if that was a compliment.As if we weren’t sitting in the same damn class, doing the same damn work.

Halfway through the lesson, I felt the usual stare burning through the back of my head.The group of boys behind me — the same ones who couldn’t go a day without finding a new joke at my expense.

“Hey,” one whispered, just loud enough. “Nice dreadlocks, by the way. You keep those in so chemicals don’t get in your brain?”

I froze for a second, then straightened up, voice low but sharp:“They’re braids. Not dreadlocks. You need to learn the difference.”

He smirked, unfazed. “Whatever, dreadlocks. Still looks funny.”The other boys laughed.Mr. Langley didn’t say a word. He never did.

My chest tightened. My hands curled around my pen so hard I thought I might break it.I wanted to say more — wanted to make him see I wasn’t a joke. But I didn’t.I’d learned that anything else only made it worse.

Then, as if it couldn’t get worse —“So, you coming to the dance?” he asked, fake smile and all.When I didn’t answer, he added, “Aw, come on. You’d look hot if you, like... tried.”

Laughter again. Sharp and familiar.

They didn’t even try to be subtle anymore.Sometimes it was my hair, sometimes my shoes, sometimes little digs about money or my quietness.Little things that piled up, pressed down, until my chest felt tight and my throat too small to breathe through.

I stared straight at my notebook, pretending to write. I didn’t look up, didn’t give them what they wanted. I never do.I’ve learned that looking back only makes them louder.

Mr. Langley walked by, glanced at them, then at me, and kept going.“Keep your focus,” he said, like that was helpful.

By the time the bell rang, I felt hollow.Everyone rushed out, laughing, shoving, like the world wasn’t heavy.I stayed behind, packing slowly, my hands shaking just enough to make the zipper stick.