Born and Broken Every Single Time.
Gone.
“So what’s your excuse today?” my dad shouted as he slammed my door open. School started half an hour ago and here I lay, curled up in my bed.
“I’m ill,” I moaned from under my covers.
“Right.” He said the lone word boldly and I strangely took that as his acceptance of the situation. I heard him walk across my room, followed by the ripping of paper.
“What are you doing?” I shouted as I peered out to see him ripping posters off my wall. “Stop!”
“You don’t want to go to school? You don’t get to have this.” He continued to rip my posters off the walls, ripping them into as many pieces as his anger could manage. He pulled anything he could find – letters, presents, autographs – and tore them up. He picked up anything he found lying around and threw it at a wall, more often throwing it at me. I’d never seen him so crazy. If only he believed me, if only he actually listened.
“Back off,” I yelled as a sudden surge of energy forced me to leap up at him trying to pull him off. He was destroying everything I loved, everything I’d built up for so long. He shoved me off him viciously, throwing me to the floor and continuing. I slammed to the ground and felt any morsel of energy drain for me. He wasn’t just destroying my possessions, he was destroying me. My room had become my only escape, a place where I could be on my own and amidst the things that made me happy. Even something as simple as my poster of Slash lifted my spirits, seeing him inanimately play guitar inspired me a little bit every day. But now it was gone.
I lay back on the floor and covered my face with my hands. I heard a shuffle at the door and looked up to see my mother standing nervously watching. My pleading look was interrupted as my dad pulled my arm so brutally to drag me up off the ground.
“Happy now?” he sneered as he ripped up another poster in my face.
“You think doing this is going to change things?” I snapped. How could he think ruining the little contentment in my life would inspire change? If only he gave me the time of day to talk, just talk.
“So you’re saying you’re going to keep this up?” he yelled in my face, his eyes screaming anger as clearly as his eyes.
“There’s nothing-“
My protest was cut short as I felt my father’s fists smash into my face. I opened my eyes to find myself sprawled face down on the floor and facing my blood soaking the carpet. I slowly moved my hand to my nose, which stung even at gentle contact. I looked at my hand to see blood dripping and recoating the already stained hand. I looked up at my mother who stood at the door, eyes wide but standing silently. As our eyes met her tears became visible, and she forced herself to walk out, unable to bear the sight.
I dragged myself up, shaking from the shock and pain at what happened. My dad silently watched me get up, his eyes wide with anger. I slowly turned away to walk to the bathroom and clean up, saying nothing as I moved but felt a sharp tug on my hair as I was pushed down the hall to my destination and shoved in front of the mirror.
“Does it make you proud?” he sneered as I came face to face with my bloodied visage. I stared blankly at the mirror, watching as I slowly tried to clean myself up with my sleeve, ignoring the question.
“Leave him,” my mothers voice quivered from the door.
“He deserves this.” I’d never heard such venom in someone’s voice as I did that moment. He brutally pulled my arm, grabbing it so tight as he dragged me back to my room and shoved me onto the floor before shouting anything to vouch his hatred for me. I lay there and saw my mum appear behind him, mouthing I’m sorry before moving out of my dads way as he slammed the door behind him as hard as physically possible.
I forced myself to turn over and drag myself over to my bed to reach my phone. I hit the call button and through my sobs – much as I tried to hold them back – I heard the curious ‘hello?’ on the other end.
“Hey Mikey,” I sniffed. “Can I stay at yours tonight?”
“I’m ill,” I moaned from under my covers.
“Right.” He said the lone word boldly and I strangely took that as his acceptance of the situation. I heard him walk across my room, followed by the ripping of paper.
“What are you doing?” I shouted as I peered out to see him ripping posters off my wall. “Stop!”
“You don’t want to go to school? You don’t get to have this.” He continued to rip my posters off the walls, ripping them into as many pieces as his anger could manage. He pulled anything he could find – letters, presents, autographs – and tore them up. He picked up anything he found lying around and threw it at a wall, more often throwing it at me. I’d never seen him so crazy. If only he believed me, if only he actually listened.
“Back off,” I yelled as a sudden surge of energy forced me to leap up at him trying to pull him off. He was destroying everything I loved, everything I’d built up for so long. He shoved me off him viciously, throwing me to the floor and continuing. I slammed to the ground and felt any morsel of energy drain for me. He wasn’t just destroying my possessions, he was destroying me. My room had become my only escape, a place where I could be on my own and amidst the things that made me happy. Even something as simple as my poster of Slash lifted my spirits, seeing him inanimately play guitar inspired me a little bit every day. But now it was gone.
I lay back on the floor and covered my face with my hands. I heard a shuffle at the door and looked up to see my mother standing nervously watching. My pleading look was interrupted as my dad pulled my arm so brutally to drag me up off the ground.
“Happy now?” he sneered as he ripped up another poster in my face.
“You think doing this is going to change things?” I snapped. How could he think ruining the little contentment in my life would inspire change? If only he gave me the time of day to talk, just talk.
“So you’re saying you’re going to keep this up?” he yelled in my face, his eyes screaming anger as clearly as his eyes.
“There’s nothing-“
My protest was cut short as I felt my father’s fists smash into my face. I opened my eyes to find myself sprawled face down on the floor and facing my blood soaking the carpet. I slowly moved my hand to my nose, which stung even at gentle contact. I looked at my hand to see blood dripping and recoating the already stained hand. I looked up at my mother who stood at the door, eyes wide but standing silently. As our eyes met her tears became visible, and she forced herself to walk out, unable to bear the sight.
I dragged myself up, shaking from the shock and pain at what happened. My dad silently watched me get up, his eyes wide with anger. I slowly turned away to walk to the bathroom and clean up, saying nothing as I moved but felt a sharp tug on my hair as I was pushed down the hall to my destination and shoved in front of the mirror.
“Does it make you proud?” he sneered as I came face to face with my bloodied visage. I stared blankly at the mirror, watching as I slowly tried to clean myself up with my sleeve, ignoring the question.
“Leave him,” my mothers voice quivered from the door.
“He deserves this.” I’d never heard such venom in someone’s voice as I did that moment. He brutally pulled my arm, grabbing it so tight as he dragged me back to my room and shoved me onto the floor before shouting anything to vouch his hatred for me. I lay there and saw my mum appear behind him, mouthing I’m sorry before moving out of my dads way as he slammed the door behind him as hard as physically possible.
I forced myself to turn over and drag myself over to my bed to reach my phone. I hit the call button and through my sobs – much as I tried to hold them back – I heard the curious ‘hello?’ on the other end.
“Hey Mikey,” I sniffed. “Can I stay at yours tonight?”
♠ ♠ ♠
A/NComments?! Thanks for reading :)