Running From Reality

“Andrea, I’m coming in,” my mother said as she opened the door. She took one look at the empty bed, which I hadn’t taken the time to make this morning, and then looked around the rest of my room before I was spotted. “Andrea Marissa, were you out running again? Do you not remember the last time your father caught you? I am ashamed to call you daughter.”

While she said this, she unlocked to window and opened it so I could come in. As soon as I was balanced, she tightly grabbed my wrist, fingernails digging into the soft flesh. “I want you to get dressed, and follow the dress code your father made for you. He’ll be angry enough if he finds out about this.” After hissing that, my mom walked out of the room, heading back downstairs. I grabbed a long sleeve white shirt and a pale green skirt that fell to just below my knees.

Father was quite adamant that I dress and act like a proper lady. Proper ladies didn’t do anything athletic or that made them sweat, they didn’t use foul language, they never wore pants, and college and jobs besides having children and caring for their husbands was unheard of. Not that he was ever sober enough to notice anymore, I thought bitterly.

Making sure that the finger shaped bruises that were already forming and the crescent shaped marks were covered by her sleeve, she headed downstairs to prepare a quick lunch for her to bring to school before she started the two and a half mile long walk to her school.