To Forgive Is Divine, but I’m Not That Type

I crawled into my room and wrapped an arm around my ribs. Tonight had been the worse beating of them all. My lip was split, I had a cut on my face, and I was definitely sure that I would have black eyes tomorrow.

I kicked the door shut and struggled with the multiple locks on the door, making sure that my father could not come and finish the job of killing me (which he attempted to do every time he was drunk). After closing the fourth lock, I fell to the floor in pain. Tears of pain and frustration fell from my eyes.

I slammed 'Depeche Mode' into the cassette player and turned the volume up all the way. I laughed at the lyrics, especially these:

"I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors,
but I think that God's got a sick sense of humor,
and when I die, I expect to find him laughing"

Too right, he has a sick sense of humor! I thought to myself. I am beaten to the brink of death all the time and I haven't died. I don't know why. Maybe I have something in me -- something special that keeps me going. I don't know.

I crawled to my bathroom and lifted myself up so that I sat on the edge of the bathtub. I picked up the antiseptic cream and rubbed it onto my split knuckles. I winced in pain as I applied the cream.

I then opened the medicine cabinet and took out one Tylenol pill, which I then swallowed with a sip of water. I stared at my cut in the bathroom mirror as I applied the butterfly stitches.

I slid down to the floor with my back leaned against the bathtub.

I closed my eyes and fell into an uncomfortable slumber.

*************

I shuffled down the stairs in the morning. All I could think of was 'I have to get out of here'. In my backpack was a change of clothes and the 'runaway' money that I had been saving. I was going to wait until I turned 18 to runaway. But now, I thought, I should leave as soon as I can.

I sat down at the breakfast table, my black eye hidden behind dark shades. I sat there drawing in my sketchbook. That's all I really did-draw. It's the one thing that I was good at that didn't need me to answer questions. I could just be myself, with no problems and no secrets. I was safe.

I was finishing my drawing of a hand holding a rose. The rose was covered in thorns, and the hand was bleeding from the thorns piercing skin. Petals fell from the rose and settled at the bottom of the page in an uneven pile. In my view, it looked pretty neat.

"What are you drawing, honey?" came my mother's soft voice.

I looked up from my page and said "just stuff that comes to my mind", and got back to work.

"Roxy... Roxy, honey, look at me." She sat down opposite me, and she seemed to just notice my face with the split lip and cut on the cheek. "Roxy, what happened?"

I looked away from her and went back to my drawing.

"I fell," I grunted.

"Roxy, don't lie to me. Please, tell me what happened!" she cried.

"I'm fine," I grunted again.

"Honey, take off your glasses," she said. When I didn't, she reached over and ripped them off herself. She then stared in shock at my battered face, now complete with a black eye!

"Oh! Honey, who did this?"

"who did wha…oh my god!" Sam had just come in the room with Mike.

"Roxy, who did this?" Mike asked. I could tell he also wanted to know. I hoped that he would believe me.

So I told them. I didn't break it gently while crying or telling them, 'I can't say!'

I just came right out and said,
"Dad did it."

Mike blinked, puzzled for a bit, and then scoffed. "As if dad would ever do something like that. Seriously, who actually did it, Roxy?"

Sam hit him on the arm. "Shut up, Mike!"

He walked over to me and pulled me into a hug. "You said he'd stopped it, Roxy!" he scolded. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

I hugged him back. "I didn't want you in danger, Sammy."

Mom hugged me and started to cry. "Oh, honey, I had no idea! I'm so sorry!" she sobbed.

I replied, doing my best to keep calm,
"It's okay, mom; I've had worse. Believe me."

However, she cried even harder. "No, it's not that, Roxy," she replied. "He promised this wouldn't happen. He said that he would never do anything bad again!"

I pulled away. "What do you mean?" I was puzzled.

"Three weeks ago, I caught him cheating on me with a young girl called Daisy. He said that he would never do anything to hurt me again!" she sobbed.

My mom is far too trusting. I pulled her into a tight embrace, comforting her, even though I too needed comfort.

Mike then did something that, a few days earlier, he had told me he was glad he never did when we were younger. (He had also told me he liked my artwork, and suggested that maybe I could become a famous artist and sell some of it to make some money of my own someday, which I had smiled at and said was a great idea, too.)

He grabbed my sketchbook and threw it across the kitchen.

"Roxy! Look what your stupid ideas are doing! You don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?"

He then pulled me out of mom's arms and shook me, making the skin on my wrists go white under his grip. I gasped in pain as he squeezed one of my many bruises.

"Mike, let go!" I hissed, trying to get out of his grip. He clamped his hands down harder.

"Let her go!" Sam roared and tackled Mike to the ground. "Dad's been beating Roxy, and all you can think of is how it's her fault!" he screamed.

"What the hell is going on down here?"

I froze at the sound of dad's voice.

"Samuel, get off of your brother."

Sam glared at dad, clenched his teeth together and didn't move.

"Sam! You will do as you are told!" dad snapped.

"Or what?" I yelled at him. "You gonna beat him too?"

"Roxanne Louise! Hold your tongue!" he hissed. He knew I hated my full name.

"I will not!" I yelled. "I'm sick of you trying to control me, Bernard!" I sneered at his name.

"Shut up, you insolent little vixen!" he snapped.

He then went to hit me, but I was faster. I caught his fist in my hand, twisted his arm sharply and pulled it behind his back. At the same time, I kicked his legs out from under him so I could pin him to the ground. Finally, to top it all off, I knelt on the small of his back and pulled out my switchblade, fully intent on killing the man who ruined my childhood.

But then Mom cried, "No, no, honey! Don't!"

I glared at her, but did as she said, letting the freak go. I grabbed my bag, sketch book, and keys to my motorbike before storming out of the door and riding off to school.