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nerd herd queen bee
XYZadorkable is offline
Join Date: Mar 22, 2007
Location: mars
Age: 15
Posts: 17
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untitled story
I tried to tune out his yelling. You would think it would be easy, seeing as how it was a frequent occurrence at our house. But it was actually pretty hard. He always came up with the strangest, unusual, and… rather fitting, words to describe a person such as myself.
“You lazy son of a … you’re worth nothing you dirt bag… you’re lucky I even let you live here!”
He started to cross the room and I became tense. I dared not move, for fear of what he would do to me once he got close enough. There was almost a whole list of possibilities, but this wasn’t the time to review it.
In his drunken stupor, he couldn’t walk. Even that was an understatement. He tripped and fell across a chair, crumbling and laying still on the stained, faded La-Z-Boy. I didn’t budge. Finally, his ragged, uneven breaths changed to deep ones. Sleeping ones. I breathed a sigh of utter relief.
I lifted my curled hand from my side, moving my fingers slowly. I glanced over at him. My tormentor, my curse from birth… my father. Sometimes I thought I could escape, I thought I could actually get away from this living hell. Beer and smoke floating around the house, screaming late every night, bruises and all matter of wounds as a result of violent arguments. Or, as society prefers to call it… abuse.
My dad snorted and thrashed around a little. He muttered something about “the deal” and “bloody son of a gun”. I froze where I was, ready to run and hide. His head fell back over the arm of the chair. Whew. Close one.
I turned and ran, out of the living room where dad was, and into my dark bedroom. I threw open my closet door, falling to my knees inside. I dug through clothes and shoes, folders and papers. Finally I pulled a box out from under an old, torn stuffed animal. I ran my fingers over the top, breathing in sharply.
All of a sudden, I heard a crash come from down the hall, followed by a long line of curse words and other muffled noises. My mind raced. He was awake. Who, or what, was making those other sounds?
I debated investigating whatever was going on, or staying in my room. Maybe Dad was hallucinating about something? Or maybe he and Mom were fighting again… In any case, I decided I had to go and find out.
I put the box down on a pile of my old clothes and pushed my closet door closed slowly. I tiptoed down the hallway silently, the racket getting louder. I paused at the end of the hallway and breathed deeply. Gathering all of my courage, I peeked around the corner into the living room.
Mom was cowering under Dad, shaking and weeping. Dad had his arm raised above her and Mom cried… I jumped out from behind the wall and screamed, “No! Stop it! Stop hurting Mom!”
Dad snapped his head up and tried to glare at me with his familiar glazed-over eyes. Mom lay on the floor, still crying. Dad started toward me. I was paralyzed, terror-stricken.
“John… stop… stop…” Mom sobbed. “Don’t hurt her…”
Her cry came too late. Dad picked up a beer bottle and it came flying at me. I hit the floor. He stumbled. He got closer and kicked me hard. I rolled over onto my back. I held my head, pain screaming through it. My vision got blurry.
“You want it to stop? It ain’t never gonna stop,” my father screamed at me, grabbing my arm and pulling me up from the floor. His face was inches away from mine, and I tried to keep from gagging. His breath reeked of alcohol. “It ain’t never gonna stop, girl, and don’t you forget it.”
He twisted my arm behind my back. I screamed, remembering the number one rule of being a victim in this house: Don’t let your attacker know you’re in pain. He pushed me against the wall, hard, and kept shouting.
“I wish you’d never been born, girl! Ever since you been born I been spendin’ money out of my own pocket for you, I been givin’ everythin’ up.” Lies. Lies. And still more lies. When had he ever done a single thing for me? For this family? Never.
Mom kept crying. Dad let go of my arm and I crumpled into a pile on the floor. He stomped through the house, and out the back door. As the screen door slammed, I caught my breath. My arm was numb. I got up slowly, trying to take deep breaths.
“Mom? Are you… alright?” I asked quietly. She lay on the floor, shuddering.
“Yeah baby, I’m fine,” she mumbled, starting to pick herself up. “Why don’t you go to your room, get some rest sweetheart.” I tried to help her, and she finally stood. Her dark, empty eyes stared down into mine. I saw a flicker of compassion in them. Mom kissed my forehead.
I turned and held onto the wall, stumbling a little. I heard Mom sink into the couch cushions and lay down behind me. I sighed, moving forward down the hallway and falling into my room. I crawled over to my closet. I reached up to the knob and pulled the door open.
The box was right where I had left it. Just sitting there, almost like it had been waiting for me. I pulled it closer to me and lifted the top off slowly. Inside sat my most precious possession, the only thing in the house I could call mine ever since the night when I snuck to the drug store on the corner. I bought it with the money I had earned from old Mrs. Wilkinson down the street for mowing her lawn.
I picked it up, and it almost gleamed in the sliver of light coming from my covered window. My heart seemed to skip a beat.
I pushed my sleeve up and my breaths grew shallow. I brought it down to my exposed arm slowly. Closing my eyes, I pressed it onto my wrist and dragged it across. Almost immediately I felt the adrenaline pumping through my body. My head pounded and I dropped my sharp razor on the floor. Everything that had been crammed into a corner of my mind, all my pain, came pouring out of my body quickly. I pulled my wrist in to my body and gathered my strength to reach across the floor and pick my razor up again.
I dug it into my skin once again, becoming faint. After all, my worst addiction was my only escape, and this escape was to be my last. The blood spilled, and the edges of my vision started to grow dark. With the last of my strength, I dragged myself to the mattress on the floor that served as my bed, and curled up in a ball. I cried my crimson tears until the very end.
They didn’t find me until the next day. Mom came in to check on me, and then… boom. She broke down. Shut down. She collapsed in the doorway. Dad came in, wondering what the hell was going on when he saw. He saw his only daughter, the only thing standing in the way of him leaving forever without a glance over his shoulder… gone.
He should have been glad, he should have been ecstatic that I wasn’t an issue anymore… but he wasn’t. His head was reeling, he stumbled out of the room and into the living room. He picked up an unfinished beer and drank, drank, drank. Maybe if he had enough to drink, he’d fall into permanent unconsciousness and that song “Whiskey Lullaby” would actually have meaning.
Life for me was over, but the pain was only beginning for my parents. I felt no sympathy toward my father, for he had done nothing for me in my worst days. Maybe it was my own fault, I don’t know. But it was coming to him. After all… blood means you’re related. It doesn’t mean you’re family.
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