Painted Wings

Hit.
Slap.
Kick.
Falling.

Knee.
Elbow.
Fist.
Caving.

Scream.
Yell.
Whisper.
Begging.

I curled into a ball.
Next time, I decided,
next time I would be silent.
So he wouldn’t win.

So Scott wouldn’t win.
Because that was Scott.

Proud.
Angry.
Violent.
Ugly.
Big.
Overpowering.
Pain,
Pain,
Pain.

Those were my word associations.

I stayed down
on the floor
until I heard his footsteps
thump away,
probably to make sure
my mother
hadn’t killed herself yet.
That was my mom.

Fearful.
Unhappy.
Suicidal.
Dark.
Filled with pain,
Pain,
Pain.

She did everything she could
to keep us alive,
and that included
letting him beat on her.

If Scott
only beat on me,
I’d die.
Not that I wasn’t close.

I gathered
my thoughts,
got up,
and wiped away the blood.

The blood,
and the tears,
and the snot,
could be wiped away.

But not the scars,
the bruises,
the fear,
the constant buzz.

The constant buzz of pain
and swirling thoughts
and anger
and the dreams.

I crept
up the stairs,
scared to make
another wrong move.

Another reason
for beating.
Another two minutes
of blood and tears and hurt.

I made it
to my bed,
not bothering to change
out of my blood-stained clothes.

I put my head
down on the pillow
and drifted off
to a place of safety.

~

The next morning,
I lifted my head
off the pillow
and got up noiselessly .

Just to be sure
Scott was at work
and not lying in wait
for me to take his bait.

He’s like that.
Slinky and silent,
attacking
when you least expect it.

I changed into a pair
of clean clothes,
clothes that didn’t reek
of pain and bitterness and sadness.

I stumbled into the bathroom,
my brain
a pounding drum
for a continuing African beat.

I popped a red ibuprofen tablet
into my mouth
to take away
the pounding in my head.

Looking up
into the mirror,
I winced
upon seeing my cheek.

A dark, angry bruise,
like Scott’s mood,
blossomed across my cheek
in a physical result of last night’s ordeal.

I swept my shaggy hair
over my face to cover it
and grabbed a hoodie
to cover the bruises and scratches on my arm.

I grabbed my backpack,
iPod,
and cell phone,
and ran downstairs.

I grabbed a granola bar
and began my walk to school,
which was quite close to my home.

It was always a lonely walk.

When I finally arrived at school,
I avoided all the people
I usually get hell from
and gathered my books.

Seemed like evading people
was all I ever did.

But that day was different.

That day,
that day was brightened
by the arrival of someone
who would later save me.

Her name was Angela.

I thought it was funny,
because she looked
like an angel,
and that
was almost her name.
Angel-a.

She was pretty,
oh so very pretty,
almost too pretty.

But she was nice,
oh so very nice,
almost too nice.

She took notice in me and became my friend.

She was small,
Asian,
and beautiful,
inside and out.

Every day she would greet me the same.

“Ter-bear, I missed you.” Added by a hug.
“Didja miss me?”

She was practically bouncing on her toes when she asked this.

And I always answered the same, too.

“Of course I missed you, Angel.”
I insisted on Angel.
She was my Angel.

She knew about what went on
in my house.

She realized
after she grabbed my arm once
and I winced.

And then she pushed my sleeve up.

And saw
the bruises and scars
d.
o.
t.
t.
i.
n.
g.
my arm.

She never asked.
But boy,
did she know.

And I knew
she never forgot.

Over time, we got closer and closer.

Angel,
Angela, she was my
personal escapade.

One day,
she took me to the beach.
And she told me that she liked me,
because I didn’t try and take advantage of her.

I’m sure she knew
that half the time,
I was in too much pain
to carry books around,
let alone try
and take advantage
of a beautiful girl.

Not that I would.

And I spoke this out loud.

And then she kissed me,
and I kissed her back,
as fireworks ,
the good kind,
went off,
and a dull ache started in my heart.

And I kissed her and kissed her
and she kissed me and kissed me
until I just had to pull away
and g a s p
at the loss of air
and how good she made my life.

She pulled me
back down to her lips,
and it made me
spin
and
spin
and
spin.

Every night was dark
and bitter
and bloody,
but every day was happy
and bright
and filled
with Angel.

She always expressed
her concern for me.
She greeted me
each morning with a kiss,
and I knew
that she was carrying
a first-Aid kit in her purse,
just for me.

No matter
how bloody I got,
or how bad I looked,
she would make things better.

“Terrence,” she would say.
“I love you. Just stick through it for now, and then something good will happen. I promise.”

I loved her, too.

With
all
my
heart.

I always wondered
what that something good
would be.

A little before
my eighteenth birthday,
my mother finally
offed herself.

Oddly enough,
I felt relief,
for I knew that
she was in a better place,
dead than alive,
even though it meant
that now, all the blows,
all the strikes,
all the burns,
scratches,
spit,
and kicks
would
land
on
me.

One night,
Scott brought home
a friend
who needed just a sip,
just a little,
of some bubbly
to make him feel good.

But it wasn’t enough.

So there was me.

Punching bag.

I missed school the next day.

While Scott was at work,
Angel came over.
She had a bag with her
and told me
she would pack for me.

And just like that, I was saved.