Remembering Sunday

My name is Lucy. Lucy Anderson. 17 years of age. But that isn’t important. What is important? Well, not me. That’s what I’ve grown up to know. I’ve always been told that I’m worthless, pointless, not important. Who told me this? Well, my parents did. Scratch that. My dad did. My parents split up when I was 5. I haven’t seen my mom since.

I don’t really do much at home. Apart from the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the ironing, the hovering. All of that. Why? Because my dad makes me. If I don’t then, well, I daren’t think about what will happen to me.

My dad. Mark. A truck driver in his late forties. A smoker. A drinker. An abuser. He blames me for the divorce with mom. Or should I say, Linda. Why does he blame me? Because ever since I came along, he felt “left out”, like he wasn’t being included, when really, he cancelled himself out. He was never there to help to look after me and to watch me grow up. He never came to family outings. He never went out for a meal with mom or me. He never came with us to a relatives birthday. He would always be at a pub getting drunk. But what also drove my parents to have a divorce was that he spent most of his time at a strip club. If he was anywhere, he was there, even during my birth. But I’m used to getting the blame now. I always do. It’s obviously in my nature.

I spend most of my nights gallivanting around the neighbourhood. I have a fear of going to sleep. Why? Because I fear that my dad will do something to me in my sleep. What will he do? God knows. He’s done so much to me, the list could go on forever.

I’m a bit of a loner. I don’t have many friends. I’ve built walls around myself that no one can get past. People have tried, but soon gave up. Only one person didn’t give up. Her names Rachel. One of the popular girls. Weird huh? Not really. Even though we do talk and are close friends, she spends most her time with her other friends. The popular kids. But that doesn’t bother me. It means I can spend more time studying and... obeying my dad.

At school, I walk around on my own. Sit on my own in class (or unless there’s a seating plan, but I just don’t talk to the person next to me and they don’t talk to me.), I sit on my own at lunch in the art room, drawing anything that comes into my head. It’s normally a random band that I listen to a lot or someone who walks by. I can look at them once and I’m able to draw them without taking a second glance at them. I’m weird like that. I’m an obscure person.

Recently, I’ve been drawing the same person over and over again. He always has spiked up hair, like a mane, dark makeup, an eyebrow piercing and a spot just below his mouth. Those specific features point out that it’s the same person. The same person who I’ve drawn walking around aimlessy, laughing with another boy who looks just like him but in baggy clothing, when he was a little kid and a family photo with him in it, the baggy clothed boy in that one too. I have no clue who he is. I have no clue why I keep drawing him. I have no clue what it is about the drawing, but I feel like he’s real. Like he can help me.

My art teacher, Mr Rice always tells me I have a particular talent in art, one that kids my age shouldn’t have. He gave me an application for an arts college, who accepted me. I’ve not told dad yet though. And I probably won’t till a few days before I have to leave. That way, he can’t stop me from going.

I’ve been told many things. Many things from people like Mr Rice and Rachel saying that I’m talented, pretty, helpful, that kind of stuff, but I never believe them. What I believe is what my dad says to me. All day everyday (or when I’m around him) he tells me that I’m worthless, a piece of shit, a waste of space, and that is what I believe. It’s what I’ve been told for 12 years. That’s what I’ve grown up to think.

Every night I think. Think about the drawings of the boy. What if he really is real? What if I bump into him one day? Could he actually help me? Would he know I need help? Would he be able to change my life? Would he even know how to? I think about it so much, that I started to doubt it. I doubt that he, a guy I don’t know, could help someone like me, a girl who can’t even help herself.