I'm scared.
I'm in a corner of the living room curled up into a tight ball as I cry and cough up blood.

I'm scared.

Still in too much pain to realize my own father has stopped kicking me.

I'm scared.

Me, a 3 year old little girl in nothing but underwear on a snowy Christmas Eve .

I'm scared.

I'm still crying as he spits on me reminding me of the terrible truth "You weren't even supposed to be born!" he yells before storming back off to his TV.

I'm scared.

I had only asked for food.
But I obviously didn't deserve it.

I'm scared...

***Present***
It stung every time I was, and am still told that.

My name is Malvoluta Ongewenste Fate.
Both my first and second name say it all.
Unwanted.

My mom is Italian/American with Spanish relatives and my dad African/American with Irish relatives.

I know. Confusing.

My mom luckily divorced him years ago but took me with her.

I didn't know why.
She was the one that called me Malvoluta in Italian which meant unwanted.

But so long as I didn't get hit or beat up anymore I didn't really mind.

But that didn't get me out of my shell.
My shell was my protection.
No one could hurt me if I was a shut-in.