This Close

Once I could consider Christmas a happy time, maybe even my favorite time of the year. The snow, the pretty blinking lights, the laughter, and of course, the presents. I don’t recall the time around December 25th to have been like that in several years.

My father left my mother in the middle of the night, when I was three months old, so I didn’t even know him. Mom and I were off alright on our own for four years.

The Christmas eve I was five years old, my mother’s driving had come into question, whether she was swerving or not, yadda yadda yadda. After an incoherent conversation, and a breathalyzer test, she was deemed intoxicated. My presence in the car had shown the state of Ohio that my mother was an ‘unfit mother', therefore she lost custody of me.

From that point on I was shuffled over to the care of my sweet ol’ grandfather. Six years later, when my grandfather had a heart attack in the middle of block buster –Picking up frosty the snow man for us to watch on Christmas night - the question was, “what to do with Annabelle?” My father being gone, and my mother loosing custody of me, I was put into a lovely foster home.

The home had putrid pink walls in the girls’ bed room and hideous turquoise walls in the boys’ room.
There were two bunk-beds in each room. Living there was a girl named Rosa who was 3 years my senior, and her little brother Jose, who was my age. 10.

There was one other boy, Scott. Scott was fourteen and dyed his hair black. He wore black, he listened to wretched music that sounded like someone was being tortured, which he thrashed around too.
Rosa would normally leave our room in the night to share Jose’s bunk, while Scott made his way over to my room. Scott neither bothered me, nor talked to me.

Until the year I turned thirteen. Judy my foster mom told me that I was in the most important stage of a girl’s life. Blooming. In other words, I was popping out of my shoes, my bras, and that I would be treated differently by the male population of my middle school – although I already knew this.

Puberty is what normal people would call it, but not Judy.

Scott was still around, still wearing black, still dying his hair black, and if possible, listening to even grimmer music. He would drive me, Jessica – a newer girl – and Jose around. Rosa had runaway on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, and left Jose to fend for himself. Great sister.

One afternoon towards Christmas break, Scott had just driven everyone home from school in Judy’s old Minivan. Riding shot gun, I had tossed everything on the floorboard when getting into the car. Gathering it all was only justifying my reason for being a little slower than everyone else. With Jessica and Jose gone, it was just me and Scott in the car. There was no reason for him to be sitting in the car, but when I straightened myself from bending over and picking up my belongings; I realized where his line of vision had been. On my backside.

Opening the door quickly, and pulling up my waistline I made my way into the house, and avoided Scott for the rest of the night like the plague.

That night Scott did something that he hadn’t done since the night before Rosa had left. He snuck over to mine and Jessica’s room. He told Jessica to leave, telling her to go to his room when she asked “Where?”. No “Why?”, no “What’s going on?”, not even a, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jessica was 15 at the time, and a ‘tough cookie’, as Judy put it, she knew how to stand up for herself, and fight when needed – or more than likely, when not.

After Jessica left, Scott, having followed her to the door, closed it and locked it. Once that was done he turned around and started making his way to my bed, where I had my eyes squeezed shut, pretending to be asleep. Scott crawled on top of me, his breath heavy and hot on my skin.

“Annabelle.” He would whisper.

When I didn’t respond he lightly slapped my face two times, using more force the second time he brought his hand down. I squinted my eyes at him, remarking that I could no longer pretend to sleep.

“What? What’s going on? Scott?”

I kept up my charade of being asleep from a few seconds before.

“Hey.” He breathed again planting his mouth at the base of my neck, as if he was a bottom feeder, and I was a grime-y fish tank.

“What are you doing?!” I started to shriek but, before I could get two thirds of the sentence out, Scott’s meaty paw was covering my mouth.

I struggled underneath him as he shifted his weight to keep on hand on my mouth, while undressing the both of us. It was quick, rough, and bloody, but when he was done with me, he lied down next to me and whispered in my ear, "Merry Christmas, Belle.”

This went on for several months, until one night Scott came into my bedroom, and ordered me out, leaving Jessica in the room. I didn’t know whether to feel horrible for knowing what Scott would do to her, or wonderful because my prayers were answered and I was being left alone.

No more than ten minutes after Scott had ordered me out of the room had I heard Jessica scream and a loud thud. I had been standing in the hall, confused and not sure what to do with myself, when the lights in the hall flicked on, Judy and Rick – my foster dad – rushed in from one end of the hall, the door to mine and Jessica’s bedroom flying open. Jessica’s hair was all over the place and her eyes were furious. I could see over her shoulder into the room where Scott was lying in the fetal position on the floor, groaning.
“What’s going on here?!” Judy had asked as Rick went to help Scott.

“That ass wipe tried to get into my pants!” Jessica had shrieked.

By now Jose had appeared in the hallway joining the rest of the ‘family’.

Rick looked at Scott who was crumpled and leaning onto Ricks shoulder and asked, “Scott is this true?”

After that night we were all split up. Even Jose who was sound asleep during the night’s events was moved to a new foster home. Over the next couple of years I moved into four different foster homes, all of them more heartless then the last. One of the houses we had to paint our Christmas tree on the living room wall. Another we picked names out of a hat, and got each other presents – which consisted mainly of new tooth brushes, deodorant for the smelly kid, a pack of gum, and a box of Cheez-its.

Last summer, a month before I turned 18, I followed Rosa’s lead, and ran away. I hitch hiked my way as far west as I could, until I met Ryan.

Ryan is a tall country boy, voice thick with accent, piercing blue eyes peering out at you from underneath a cowboy hat, and locks of chocolate brown hair, in a flannel shirt and worn jeans. He picked me up on what was a ‘milk run’ as he told me. And brought me back to the little cabin he was living in with a close friend. I had lucked out. This boy was gorgeous, and took me in with a kind heart. I stayed at his house for two weeks before we attacked each other with lust. Shortly after, becoming us, instead of Annabelle and Ryan, just friends.

Ryan would wake up early, clunking around in his work boots, and go out doing whatever it was they did in the woods almost every morning with Tyler, his roommate, and I would stay home, fix up the cabin and make dinner. One evening in June Tyler announced that he was moving out of the Cabin and into an apartment closer to the city. We were happy for Tyler, but most of all we were happy to have the house to ourselves.
One night after returning from work later than normal, Ryan sat down to eat the dinner I had prepared two hours earlier, getting upset with me for his food being cold, and it being ‘my fault’. That wasn’t our first fight, or the first time he raised his voice at me, but it was the first time that he had ever become physical during a fight with me.

As the days went on, Ryan found more and more reasons to start fights with me. Each of the fights left me with one more welt, or bruise then I had the day before.

Two days before I was to go with Ryan on a family outing with his parents and siblings he had broken a glass causing an argument, and held it to my face. I had had to skip out on the festivities that would no doubt hold questions on how I had gotten the gash that required stitches, running the length of my upper lip to my lower eyelid. This, of course, started another spat. The whole ordeal of me not being at his parents’ house with him was, obviously, my fault, and that I should be ashamed of myself.

Three months ago, while washing and sorting the clothes, Ryan had stormed into the bed room where I was picking up clothes and putting them in the basket between my arms, as he ranted and bellowed about the fact that I had ‘once again forgotten to buy beers’ since he had finished the last of it the night before. The shouting followed me out into the hall, and to the top landing of the stairs before the monster I had become to know reached out and grabbed me by the arm. I struggled out from Ryan’s iron grip – even though I had learned that it was quicker and less painful with no struggling. I stumbled a little before righting myself, just as I was about to be grabbed again. This time I did not break free from my captor, instead bringing him down the stairs with me, on top of me. With my leg beneath my body I heard a definite crack. Not good. Apparently Ryan had heard it too because he dragged me upwards, and out to the car where he continued at it with me, throwing in a slap at an occasional vacant red light, and making his way to the hospital. There it was decided that I had a broken leg. Duh. Also that I had to stay on bed rest for a week. That had been my worst week with Ryan. He figured since I was already in bed that he would take every opportunity to ravage me almost every day.

Now I sit in the bathroom of our tiny house staring downward at my own fate. My own tragedy. Maybe not just mine anymore. I heard the front door slam shut, and the clomping of boots, signaling the arrival of my sweet, sweet boyfriend. Next week was Christmas; this time of year never was my best time for luck I guess. I scrambled around the bathroom hiding all evidence that would no doubt start another beating.

Just as Ryan reached the top landing I heard myself whisper, “Merry Christmas Annabelle.”