The Voice Within

"Dad please!" I pleaded frantically, seeing that this argument was about to escalate into something much worse. "Get out of here!" I said to Luke, my little brother, grabbing a fistful of his white shirt. I practically dragged him through the corridor and threw him in his room.

"W . . . what’s going on?"; he sobbed feigning innocence, he knew the drill. I slammed the door behind him, ordering him to lock it.

“Ronnie!” my dad bellowed from the kitchen, yet another plate crashed to the floor. My breathing quickened, my heart raced. You’d think I’d get used to it. The constant pain, the constant fear that controls and surrounds my life. But I never did, it always surprised me, twice as strong or twice as terrifying before.

“Ronnie!”

I winced, bending over, and putting my head between my knees. I could already feel the blows raining down on my back.
“
Oh, there you are,” he whispered, his words dripping with venom, disgust and hate. Hate for me. “Trying to hide, were we?”

I shook my head, if my words didn’t beg him to stop, them my eyes did; wide with terror and fear.

“You know,” he added sarcastically, bending down so that his face was inches away from mine, “Your nothing like your mother at all. She never ran away from anything. Never. But you, you’re just a piece of trash compared to her, a tiny bug scuttling away in the corner.”
I put my hands over my ears, I shut him out. I told my self over and over that he was drunk; he didn’t even know what he was saying. I bit my tongue so hard that it bled, anything to keep him out. But still his words rang sharp and clear, echoing around in my mind.

“You don’t even look like her,” he snarled, spitting the words out.

“Yeah? Well at least I don’t look like you!” I yelled, surprising even myself with my nerve. I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand, what was wrong with me?

“His smile vanished, instead he whispered in my ear, “No, Ronnie. That’s where you’re wrong. You’re everything like me.”

Before I could even react, his fist was in my face, slamming my head back into the glass cabinet behind me. The glass broke, spaying my hair with tiny glass shards. It mustn’t have been that hard because I didn’t slip into unconsciousness like I hoped. No, I was fully alive and aware of what happened during the next five minutes. Another blow to my chin, and my whole mouth filled with the bitter taste of blood.

I curled up in a ball, like a hedgehog as my surroundings blurred. I was having an out of body experience. Every blow, every kick that whacked me in the side or slammed into my stomach knocking the wind out of me, that wasn’t me. That was some silly little girl called Ronnie, who didn’t do as she was told, and was getting what she deserved.
I don’t know how long I lay there, sobbing to myself until no more tears could roll down my cheeks. I lay there, long after dad went, giving me one last shove onto the floor, and then disappearing out of the apartment. I lay there, cold and numb, and just thinking there’s only so many times someone can be hurt, whether physically or internally before they break, broken so hard or in so many places that they can never be fixed again. So after an hour or two of lying in the living room floor; bruised and broken, I sighed heavily and got up. I tiptoed through to the bathroom. Almost as if I was in a trance, I locked the door and dazedly stepped into the shower. Clothes on, I turned the water on and let it wash over me. It was freezing cold but that didn’t matter. As long as I was clean again.

It stung in some places, but the stinging pain was to be expected. It cleaned me, washing away the blood, but it didn’t rid me of the feel of his hands as they clamped down on my arm, a strong iron grip, or the feeling of being so ashamed and disgusting. Realizing this, I switched off the shower and dried myself down. I changed into my sweats and a plain t-shirt.
The horrible feeling of déjà-vu and routine stayed with me. I would definitely have to do something about that, this couldn’t keep going on. But not tonight, tonight was a school night. I needed to prepare myself for school tomorrow, and Luke. I crept into his room and switched the light off. I silently climbed into his bed, wrapping my arms around him. He sniffed and hugged me back. His quilt was wet with tears, it worried me to see how upset he was. Still, with me here now, he still managed to suppress a small smile.

“You smell all funny,” he laughed nervously.

“I know,” like the food in the fridge, we had run out of soap again. After being drenched with cold water for half an hour, it wasn’t a surprise, “Get some sleep, okay Luke?”

“But Ronnie, what about . . .” he began, his small six-year old brain struggling to get right what he wanted to say.

“Sssh, everything’s going to be alright now Luke. Everything’s going to be alright,” I squeezed my battered eyelids tightly shut, trying to believe it myself.

And that’s how we fell asleep, Luke and I. Barely able to fit in his small single spider man bed, but we were safe. For now.