You're Never Alone.
I promise you.
"You little bitch!"
Again, I was kicked in the stomach. Again, I immediately doubled over.
My abuser towered above me, half empty whiskey bottle in hand.
"I-I'm sorry..." I stuttered, my voice barely audible.
[Fuck up. You shouldn't have said anything. You know better than to talk back.]
"Sorry?" He scoffed mockingly, "You're not sorry."
"Yes, I am." I mumbled back.
"What? Don't tell me you're back talking again."
I saw his free hand clench into a fist and is eyes flash with angry fire and then narrow into little slits.
"N-no, sir."
He chuckled and turned away. I watched silently as he left the room and listened carefully for the sound of the stairs creaking beneath his weight as he made his descent back downstairs. Once I was sure he wasn't within range of earshot I broke down sobbing.
[ All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault.]
The voices in my head chanted over and over again, taunting me. But that was nothing new. I was always belittling myself for everything I ever said or did.
I crawled over to my dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer. With shaking hands, I withdrew from beneath the bundles of clothing, my most prized possesion. It was cold, gray and heavy, the symbolism and power it held made me shake even more. One bullet, one pull of the trigger was all it would and I would surely be free. I would be away from here, be away from my cold, evil, alcoholic uncle who put me through a living hell every night. Perhaps, tonight that would all end. Yes, it would.
My hands trembling, I raised the gun and pushed the cold barrel into my temple. I bit my lip to keep my sobs from leaving my now bleeding lips.
As I began to apply pressure to the trigger, my gaze wandered around the room and rested on my wall where the black and green Acts poster I had bought at camp was taped. As I absentmindedly stared at it, a comforting warmth began to wrap around me and I felt as if I was back in the chapel at camp, listening to Pastor Mark. His tear filled words suddenly came to mind and filled my ears, as if I had magically gone back in time to that summer and was once again, seated in the front row, legs crossed and ears intently listening to everything he had to say.
"Young person, listen to me now when I say, I promise, not one of you is ever alone, no matter what happens."
Remembering those words, that one simple sentence broke what little composure I had left. The gun fell to the floor and I collapsed next to it in a heap and began to sob.
After what seemed like hours of sobbing on the floor like a pathetic child and running his words through my head over and over and over again, I picked up the gun and hid it under the heap of clothes in the dresser drawer.
"God..help me." I whispered simply as I crawled into bed and continued to cry until I fell asleep, those words still ringing in my ears.
Again, I was kicked in the stomach. Again, I immediately doubled over.
My abuser towered above me, half empty whiskey bottle in hand.
"I-I'm sorry..." I stuttered, my voice barely audible.
[Fuck up. You shouldn't have said anything. You know better than to talk back.]
"Sorry?" He scoffed mockingly, "You're not sorry."
"Yes, I am." I mumbled back.
"What? Don't tell me you're back talking again."
I saw his free hand clench into a fist and is eyes flash with angry fire and then narrow into little slits.
"N-no, sir."
He chuckled and turned away. I watched silently as he left the room and listened carefully for the sound of the stairs creaking beneath his weight as he made his descent back downstairs. Once I was sure he wasn't within range of earshot I broke down sobbing.
[ All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault.]
The voices in my head chanted over and over again, taunting me. But that was nothing new. I was always belittling myself for everything I ever said or did.
I crawled over to my dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer. With shaking hands, I withdrew from beneath the bundles of clothing, my most prized possesion. It was cold, gray and heavy, the symbolism and power it held made me shake even more. One bullet, one pull of the trigger was all it would and I would surely be free. I would be away from here, be away from my cold, evil, alcoholic uncle who put me through a living hell every night. Perhaps, tonight that would all end. Yes, it would.
My hands trembling, I raised the gun and pushed the cold barrel into my temple. I bit my lip to keep my sobs from leaving my now bleeding lips.
As I began to apply pressure to the trigger, my gaze wandered around the room and rested on my wall where the black and green Acts poster I had bought at camp was taped. As I absentmindedly stared at it, a comforting warmth began to wrap around me and I felt as if I was back in the chapel at camp, listening to Pastor Mark. His tear filled words suddenly came to mind and filled my ears, as if I had magically gone back in time to that summer and was once again, seated in the front row, legs crossed and ears intently listening to everything he had to say.
"Young person, listen to me now when I say, I promise, not one of you is ever alone, no matter what happens."
Remembering those words, that one simple sentence broke what little composure I had left. The gun fell to the floor and I collapsed next to it in a heap and began to sob.
After what seemed like hours of sobbing on the floor like a pathetic child and running his words through my head over and over and over again, I picked up the gun and hid it under the heap of clothes in the dresser drawer.
"God..help me." I whispered simply as I crawled into bed and continued to cry until I fell asleep, those words still ringing in my ears.
♠ ♠ ♠
>.<