No one knew them like I did. Not Nick, not Lauren, not even my mothers sister, Eliza, knew much about them. My mother, she told me everything. She told me about their finance issues and about the divorce. She told me about Nick and her feelings towards him when they first met. She told me about how happy she was that he proposed on Valentines Day, the way she had wanted to be proposed to ever since she was young. She told me about the beatings and the scars after they got married. She told me to be cautious when dealing with him. She didn't want me near him. But she needed the money to keep us alive. He knew that. Of course he knew that. That's why he married her.
A few years after their marriage, my mom got into a car accident. She suffered severe head trauma and just three days after being brought to the hospital, she passed. I was eleven.
My father didn't take her death as well as I'd hoped. He spent most of his time at bars, trying to drink the pain away. At first, everyone thought it was the normal reaction to this sort of situation. But it didn't stop. Nana ended up having to put him through rehab. The rehab helped, for about two weeks. After that he went back to his usual ways. He took excessive amounts of meds, smoked pot, and of course, drank his life away, literally. He was found in his apartment, passed out, with a bottle of meds in one hand and a can of Miller Light in the other. But by the time the police arrived, he was already dead.
I didn't even bother going to his funeral. What was the point? So what if he was my father. If he really cared about me he wouldn't have left me, alone.
I've thought about leaving too. But could I really bring myself to do such a terrible thing and even if I did, would I really want killing myself to be the last decision I ever make? No, I could never. My parents raised me better than that. I know they did.
At least my father wasn't like the poor excuse for a guardian that I have now. The one thing drawing me back to the endless pain and sorrow that I once suffered. The stories my mother told to me about the beatings, they were all true and I fear they're becoming my reality.
I know he blames me for what happened to my mother six years ago. Though I blame him. She was put through 2 years of mental torment. If I was her, I'd want to leave too.
He's drunken way too much tonight, much like he's done every night. But tomorrow is Saturday, the weekend. That means days for healing before returning to school on Monday, or even sooner, church on Sunday.
I crept down the steps towards the living room, the sting of vodka piercing through my nose. I knew I shouldn't be going down there, but I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later and I would rather get it over with than be resenting it the entire night. The sooner its over the sooner I get to not sleeping.
A loud creek of the old wooden steps averted his attention over to me, "What the hell are you still doing awake?"
Big mistake, I looked for a place to run, to hide, to escape. I sprinted to the front door, turning the knob as fast as I could. But the knob wouldn't budge, I whipped myself around searching for a back up plan. But there he was, ready. I thought fast, kicked his crotch, and escaped between his legs.
"You'll pay for that you little brat!"
I needed a place to hide. I glanced around the room, there was nowhere. What about under the table? No, that was too easy. How about the back door? I could get out through the back door! No, he's smarter than that, he would have locked it prior to picking up the bottle of whiskey. Wait, what about my room? Risk running up the stairs and majorly hurting myself before the beating? How about no. With only a few seconds to decide, I chose my bedroom. At the moment, that would be the safest place for me to be.
I gathered myself and darted up the stairs to my bedroom. I slammed the door shut, locking it and placing a chair underneath the knob. Sprinting to my window, I unlatched the lock, grabbed the outer frame, and slid the entire thing as far up as it would go. This was my chance to escape, to run away and never come back. To never get beaten, screamed at, or even think about suicide ever again. This was my chance to be free.
It seemed like a good idea. I would leave this horrible place and everything would be fine. But it would be cold, there would be no food for me to eat, and I would still be alone. At least here I had someone, anyone. Out there, I was a lone wolf. I'd literally have nobody.
My decision was clear, in my eyes. I would stay, as long as the food kept entering my mouth and the walls provided me heat and comfort. I closed the window slowly, second guessing my decision one or more times. No, this was right. Besides, if he ever found me, I would get the biggest beating for leaving. I guess I was already going to get a beating.
I sat on the edge of my bed, wondering when the screaming and pounding would stop. He would tell me he's 'not mad anymore' or that 'we can put this behind us'. Then the forgiving part of me would give in, walk over, and open the door. Not this time. Every ounce of care, forgiveness, and trust in me has disintegrated. So there I sit, waiting, thinking, and not caring.
--- I hope you liked the first chapter!! Tell me what you think and I will write more.