Walking Disaster

"God, Laurie, that was amazing."

I had finished up, gotten my pay, and left. I went to McDonalds so I could buy something to eat - a disgusting greasy burger. But hey, it was all I could afford. I took my pitiful meal to my even more pitiful home: the middle of a back alley, under a tarp. The shelter was full tonight.

Lying there, having somewhat satisfied my hunger, I thought about everything. Was this really worth it? I ran my fingers through my greasy, crunchy black hair that hadn't been washed for weeks. Then I remembered why I'd left in the first place. Yes. Yes, this was totally worth it.

I was 16 when I left home. When I finally decided to run, it was a cool autumn day. My porcelain skin was still clean, and my blue eyes could still shine. Other people could have chosen a friends house, or a grandparent, or an aunt. I wasn't so lucky. My grandparents were all dead, and they had had my single-child parents. I suppose I could have lived with Sarah, my best friend. I had considered it. But I didn't want her to know. I couldn't handle her, a judgmental, perfect little cookie-cutter, to look down on me. I wanted to leave everything behind. To start over. So, I did.

That day, my lush of a mother came into my room at six in the morning. It was a Sunday. I could smell the wine on her breath as she said, "Wake up, Laura. It's time for church." Church didn't start for four hours. I groaned. I went downstairs into the kitchen. My mother was sitting at the table, waiting for me. I noticed the wine glass, unwashed, in the sink. I sat across from her.
"I don't understand," she began, "How you can be so ungrateful. We raised you right, we fed you, we clothed you, we loved you..." I snorted. "And this is how you repay us?", she continued. She shook her head, and sighed.

"You, my daughter, Laura Sophie Rickon, were supposed to do great things. How do you think you're going to do that when you're practically failing all of your classes?" I had mostly A's. I opened my mouth. "You don't know anything. You don't know anything about me. I'm fine, you're the one who’s a disappointment", I said. She stood up and slapped my across the face. "God, when your father hears about this... tonight, he'll set you straight!" She stormed off, leaving me alone with my soggy Cheerios.

In church, I had to act like nothing was wrong. Like nothing had happened. Like we were a perfect happy family. God, it made me sick. After the sermon, an old lady came up to me. "My, my, my, look how much Lucy has grown!", she beamed. I was forced to smile and say, "My name is Laura, ma'am." She nodded. "Yes, yes, of course! My, you look just like your mother! She's a great woman. You are honored to have her as a mother." I wanted to punch that wrinkly old cow in the face, watch her dentures pop out and fly away.

On the ride back home, we were silent. My mother and I entered the small house, and she stood there, dazed. She turned to me, and grabbed me by the hair. She pulled it, and I tried not to scream. My eyes watered. "My daughter!? You embarrass me! You stupid, fat, ugly bitch! You slut! You whore! Why were you born?" She tugged harder, and punched me in the face. Boy, did it hurt. She released me and walked away, acting like everything was normal. I went to the kitchen and grabbed an icepack and put it on the spot. The abuse was familiar to me, it was nothing new. It was one of my best-kept secrets. Even so, with every hit I still felt the shock and the shooting pain as if it were the first time.

That night, my father came home. I was in my room. He had been away, 'on business'. Or out fucking some whore. Who knows? I could hear them talking downstairs. I sat in the dark, my legs pulled to my chest, my face buried in my knees. I prayed. "Please. Please, not tonight."

He had been my tormenter since I was a little girl. I dimly remember the first time he preyed upon me. I must have been five years old. He told me, "Don't tell mommy, baby. This is our secret game." At first I thought it was okay, even though it made me feel sick. I trusted my father, I thought he would never hurt me. When I got older, and learned the truth of the situation, I was too scared to do anything about it.

I did try once. I tried to tell Sarah. She laughed in my face. "Laura, you're silly. Your father loves you. He'd never do that. It must have been a nightmare." I wondered why she couldn't see, when I saw the marks on her arm as plain as day. I guess there are some things that just can't be said out loud. Sometimes, you need to surround yourself in the denial, like an umbrella, to protect yourself from the harsh reality.

My door swung open later. My mother must have passed out earlier than usual. My father walked in, and shut it slowly. I laid there, not moving, trying not to breathe. Please, no. He walked over to my bed. "Laura," he said, his voice hard. He bent down, his vile breath breathing in my face, his unshaved face tickling mine. "Laura, wake up." Shit. Why? I opened my eyes. He made me scoot over and sat down next to me. He rubbed his dirty hand over my stomach. Soon, he ran it up under my shirt. I closed my eyes and tried to get my mind away. He took his other hand, and pulled on the drawstring of my pants. God, no.

These two years laying in a smelly alley, living next to a dumpster, being unbathed and hungry, were heaven. I reached my hands up to the sky.I didn't have to be with them.

***

I Haven't been home for a while
I'm sure everything's the same
Mom and Dad both in denial
And only jokes to take the blame
Sorry, Mom, but I don't miss you
Father's no name you deserve
I'm just a kid with no ambitions
Wouldn't come home for the world