Torn Between Two Ways

I tried to sneak past my dad, who was watching TV. I tiptoed behind the couch and to the stairs. It was typical of me to forget the squeaky step. When I stepped on it, he looked up at me.

His eyes were clouded, but he looked very angry. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, slurring his words together.

“I’m going upstairs to do my homework,” I replied as sweetly and kindly as I could, considering I was talking to my father. I was hoping not to set him off.

“Did you do your chores?” he demanded.

I gulped. I tried to decide whether to tell the truth and hope he wouldn’t get angry or to lie and risk him finding out later. I went for the truth. “Um, I was going to do that when I was finished with my homework.”

His face turned red. Maybe I should have lied. “Damn it, Anna! How many times have I told you to do your chores right when you get home?” He stood up.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’ll do them right now!” But it was too late. He was already stumbling towards the stairs. I ran to my room with him right behind me. He grabbed my wrist tightly and pulled me around to face him. My wrist twisted a way it shouldn’t have.

“Don’t run away from me!” he screamed.

The back of his hand hit my cheek and made a loud smacking sound. I cried out. The force of the slap sent me flying.

My temple hit the side of my bedpost. I fell to the ground, clutching my head. When I took my hands away to look at them, they were covered in blood.

Shaking, I slowly looked up at him.

He was towering over me. “Get up!” he yelled, and grabbed the same wrist he had before.

He slammed me into the wall. One of my pictures fell down with a crash, but he ignored it. He pinned my shoulders against the wall with his big, strong hands.

Getting in my face, he said more quietly, “If you would listen to me, this wouldn’t happen.”

I closed my eyes and winced, waiting for the next blow.

He grabbed my hair and threw me onto the floor. I cried out again, holding my head once more. I waited for him to do something else, but he was done. He had left.

I lay on my bedroom floor, whimpering and bleeding.

He was wrong. I tried to listen to him. I tried not to upset him. No matter what I did, he would do this. Even if I listened, it wouldn’t matter. I knew that I couldn’t live like that for much longer.