Painful Lullaby

She struck me again, and it sent my head spinning. I fell back into the table, and she yanked me up.

"You're a fucking piece of shit. Never forget that."

She spit on the floor next to me, and stormed into her bedroom. My mom wasn't drunk, she wasn't high, she was angry.

My friends told me she hit me because she was jealous of me, but I know she did it because I was a mistake. I wasn't her perfect daughter, I was an outcast, different. She was ashamed to be seen with me. Most people didn't know that I was her daughter.

I snuck out the front door, running quickly and going nowhere. I knew that would just make her angrier, but I wasn't going to stay and take her shit the rest of the night. Soon enough, my head started to hurt, and my arm burned with pain everytime I moved it.

I needed alcohol.

I went to the side streets of our small town--the ones you see in the movies that the ladies run in when they're trying to escape the bad guys. But the only thing in here was a homeless guy who was always stocked with alcohol. For some reason, he was always out. Probably rummaging through people's garbage cans I suppose.

He knew people stole from him, but what could he tell the cops? "Someone stole the stash of beer the I stole from the party stores." Yeah. Right.

When I got there, he wasn't anywhere to be seen. There was a box with a blanket in it, and another full of alcohol. I grabbed the largest bottle of Vodka I could find, and pulled it out, my arm stinging with pain.

Underneath the bottle, I found something else. A bag of white powder. I knew what it was. I knew it could help me. I grabbed it and shoved it in the pocket of my hoodie. I tried to look casual--as casual as a 14 year old could look carrying around a bottle of vodka.
I went to the park. It had always offered me sanctuary, from it's swings to the vast hiding places beneath the slides and playscapes.

I headed to the nearest bench. I knew I must look like shit. I collapsed onto the bench, setting the bottle down next to me. I was really starting to ache. I pulled one of my necklaces up, the one that was a compact on a chain. I flipped it open and examined my face. My lip was split, the side of my face was scratched, most likely from her rings, and I was starting to see a serious bruise coming on. I let out a sigh of relief. That could be easily explained as falling down the stairs. My left arm on the other hand was not in that great of shape. All the fresh cuts had split open, and it was covered in a canvas of bruises, whether they were yellow, black, or just shadows, they were there. I pulled my hoodie back up and tied the drawstrings above the cuts to (hopefully) slow the bleeding. It hurt like hell, but soon that would fade.

I grabbed the bottle of Vodka, and took a long swig. It burned it's way down. I pulled the bag of cocaine and emptied it onto the bench. I pulled my favorite necklace out--a razorblaze on a chain. I slid it through the rows, making 3 thin rows. I picked up the bottle again, and drank like my life depended on it. In a way, it kind of did. I mean, it could kill me.

I finished the last off, the pain starting to fade. I tossed to bottle aside, and looked up at the stars. They seemed to shine brighter tonight than ever before. I felt my throat choke up, and my eyes start to sting. I shuddered, and leaned down to snort the first row of cocaine. Just as I finished the first row, the bright light of a flashlight shone on me.

"Get her!"

The police officer ran toward me, and I stumbled up, making sure to swipe the remaining cocaine off of the bench. I ran, or stumbled, like the Devil himself were hot on my heels instead of a puny policeman.