Follow the Bright Lights

Skye’s POV

I was seven when mom divorced my dad.

I remember hiding in the closet with Mitchell. We watched them yell at each other. There was so physical fighting, but it was all harsh words. I couldn’t stop crying. He couldn’t get me out of the closet. My mom had walked out of the house and I knew that both her and my dad were looking for me. Mitchell was scared too. We didn’t know what was going to happen.

I decided I didn’t like either of them anymore, then and there.

That night, the two of us slept in the closet. My dad woke us up the next morning and yelled at us. He told Mitchell to go home. He gave me and smile and then slipped out the back door.

That was the last memory I had of him. Of his silly, chestnut hair and green eyes.

Dad yelled and yelled at me, telling me to pack up all my things. I told him he didn’t have to yell, I knew he didn’t want me.

Mom picked me late that night. I waited for her. All I took with me was my most favorite dress, my tiara, my jewelry box, and my scrapbook that Mitchell had put together for me.

We went to the airport and she booked the next flight they had, no matter where it was.

I woke up the next morning with dried tears on my face. I was in some strange car with my mom. When I looked outside I saw a big city around me. New York? Chicago?

We slept in a fancy hotel that night. My mom left me alone for a little bit and I ran to the nearest phone.

Mitchell’s was the only phone number I knew when I was that small. I called him every morning to say good morning and every night to say goodnight. If I forgot to call, he would call instead and call me a ‘forgetful little goose.’

The phone rang a few times and then I heard his voice.

“It’s me...it’s Skye,” I told him.

“I called you yesterday. Ten times. No one picked up.”

“My mom picked me up yesterday.”

We didn’t say anything for a few moments.

“Skye, where are you?” he asked.

“I...I don’t know...”

My mom walked in at that point and started yelling. Instantly I started to cry.

“Skye are you okay?” I heard him ask and I put the phone down.

“Who are you talking to?!” she yelled. “Stop crying!”

“M-Mitchell...” I stuttered.

“Well tell him goodbye. You won’t be talking to him for a very long time.”

I picked up the phone. I could hear that he was crying.

“Bye, Mitchell,” I whispered.

“Goodbye, Blue Skye, sleep tight tonight,” he replied, and then I hung up.

Mom was right. That was the last time I ever talked to him.

When I was nine mom married him.

It’s hard to talk about him, considering what he’s done to me. Mom knows what he did, but she doesn’t want to admit it. Though my dad yelled, he was my father. My step-dad could never ever replace my father.

His name was John Richmond. He was big, like a wrestler. And he could throw a punch. My mom didn’t love him, but he had a good job and he could help pay the bills that we were struggling to pay.

I remember the first time he hurt me. I seem to only remember the bad things in my past.

It was a few months after they’d gotten married. Mom had gone out and he was home, on the phone with someone. He was arguing, and it scared me. Yelling I was never fond of.

He hung up the phone angrily and yelled for me from my room.

I regretfully walked into the kitchen only to feel the sudden sting of a slap across the face.

“You are so worthless to me, you little brat!” he yelled and punched me in the gut.

Hot tears poured down my checks and I was so scared I couldn’t stop shaking.

He punched me once more and then kicked me away. I ran to the bathroom, my stomach about to explode with pain. I threw up three or four times, blood pouring into the toilet, before crawling back into my room.

As I laid in bed crying, I thought of him, I thought of Mitchell. And I only cried more. From that point on, I couldn’t remember his phone number.

At night, I didn’t sleep. I was afraid he would come in and beat the living hell out of me. And when I slept, I only dreamt of him beating me up. A few times, the inevitable happened. Whenever my mom was away, he beat me up.

I didn’t eat much either. I was just a walking skeleton.

Growing up in San Diego, you’d think I’d have a lot of friends and that I would get out much.

But childhood depression bites you where it hurts most. When I wasn’t at school I hid in my room, afraid.

I didn’t do my homework. I was failing school. I hung out with no one. No one would talk to me. I looked like a walked disaster.

My mom knew it happened. How did she not see all the black eyes, the blood, the bruises? You’d have to be stupid not to notice something was going on. But she never ever said a word about it.

I remember my sixth grade teacher asking me once how I got my black eye. That constant fear drilled into me, I lied. I told her I fell, because I knew if I told on him, the beatings would not stop.

Through high school it continued, but I tried to push past. I knew I didn’t have long until I’d be done with him. I’d move out and start a new life if it was the death of me. I pulled up my grades. I had a couple friends. I covered the scars and new beatings with makeup. I got a job, which allowed me to get out. I was once again a healthy weight.

I bought pretty things, beautiful, big, children’s fairytale clothes. I had never been allowed to be a child until I allowed myself.

But the depression was still a big part of my life.

One night I returned home from work to find all the pictures from my scrapbook, the one Mitchell made me, ripped up and crumpled on the floor.

I instantly dropped my bags and started to cry. I hadn’t looked at the scrapbook in months. And I’d had it stored where only I could find it because it was the only thing left I had of my normal life.

John walked into the room. “You weren’t here. I needed something to destroy.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes. “You fat bastard,” I growling and instantly lunged at him, kicking him with all my might.

But I was small, and he overpowered me. He threw me against my floor and kicked me until I couldn’t breathe.

I lay there, just hoping to die. I was bleeding all over my floor, my pictures.

I picked up a picture, the most intact one I could find. It was me and Mitchell at his seventh birthday party. His mom had taken that picture. Each of us had a huge smile on our faces and he had his arm around my shoulder. He had been an awkward child, but he was sweet. He always tried to make me laugh and he’d often told me that he never wanted to grow up.

He had been my only friend. Ever.

I started to cry again, crouched up on the floor, until I fell asleep.

I was a senior in high school when I was spotted at work by a casting director. He gave me his card, told me he’d have work for me if I’d be willing in Los Angeles.

I could never do anything like that. I threw his card away. Bad choice.

It was only a few weeks later when I uploaded pictures of myself in my fairytale clothes onto Flickr. I got a call from the H&M modeling agency and my heart instantly leapt for joy. They wanted me to model for them, in Los Angeles, with high pay, right after I finished high school.

I told my parents nothing of my plan, passed school with flying colors, and happily turned down every college just dying to have me.

I’d never known what I wanted to be in life. I never thought I could be a model. Sure, I was skinny. But never in my life had I thought I was pretty. Let alone as pretty as an H&M model.

After the graduation ceremony, which only my mom attended, I drove home, packed all my things into my car, and left forever.

I remember playing Coldplay in my car as I drove to Los Angeles. I was crying, but for the first time in my life, it was because I was excited and happy for something. I taped the picture of Mitchell and me to the dashboard, I let my blonde hair blow in the wind, and I drove.