Struggles

I don't know what time it was that I finally woke up, but it was past dark and dad wasn't home yet so it couldn't have been too long. Head pounding I pushed myself up and balanced my weight on my left arm while using my right hand to wipe away the dry and crusted blood from my face. I shuddered a breath as a chill ran up my spine. I stood up very slowly, fighting the dizziness that tried to overcome me.
I stumbled to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. Wetting it I gently scrubbed my burning face. I quickly inspected the damage, my nose wasn't broken but I had a long cut on the bridge and my nose had bled. My lip was swollen and I had a cut along the left side of my lower lip. I glanced at my arm, the one my dad had gripped so tightly. I had multiple round red marks, slowly turning purple. Slowly I pulled up my shirt, looking at the huge purpleing bruise on my enitre side.
Gingerly I touched, flinching in response. I hissed as my eyes filled with tears of abhor towards my father. Why did he have to do this? What gave him the right to do this to me? What did I ever do to him to make him hate me this damn much? I sucked in a deep breath of hair, whincing as it stretched my sides. I went to my room, deliberately taking slow steps.
I looked around my room, noticing that it was messy. The sheets on my bed were all displaced from when I was thrown at it and tried to grab them for support. Papers had flown off the small end-table I had and were strewn all over the floor. I bent over to pick them up and fell down hard on my knees, my vision flashing a hot white. I tried to look past the white, but the room was tilting left then right then left again.
I heard the front door slam shut and the room snapped back into place. My father grunted and groaned as he sloshed his drunken self to the bathroom. I sucked in a deep breath and held it as he peed, then washed his hands. I held the breath until he'd gone from the bathroom to the living room and fell onto the couch. I let out the breath and hung my head, closing my eyes.
After a few minutes I heard the couch groan, dad was getting up. My eyes snapped open and my head flew up. I was standing off in the corner near my bed by the time he got to my door. As my door flew open and my drunken father staggered in I tensed my body, ready for anything.
"Y'know, I never meant for anything to happen? What happened to us? You used to be such a good little boy, patient and kind and good. Why'd you turn into a bad boy little boy, annoying and a pain-in-the-ass and bad?" he slurred. I didn't move an inch, let alone speak. "Y'know? Answer me boy, why'd you turn into a bad little boy?" Still, I remained silent. "God damn it boy, fucking answer me you piece of shit! Why the hell did you decide to be a fucking disappointment?!"
Softly I answered him. "I don't know why sir." He leaned foward, pointing out that he didn't hear me. "I don't know sir." I said louder. His face tuned a bright red, puffing up as came at me. I knew I'd done wrong, talking, that was a no-no in his book. I never knew when I was supposed to speak and when I wasn't, obviously this time I was supposed to remain silent.
My body tensed as dads hands wrapped around my upper arms. I knew my arms were skinny, his thumb touched his fingers when he grabbed me, my arms only being the size of a normal persons wrist. Dad gripped my arm tighter and tighter, squeezing until he cut off most of the blood circualtion.
I felt my fingers began to tingle as dad pushed his one hand into my face, his body reaking of alcohol. As I tried not to barf at the over-whelming stench of booze mixed with sweat, dad proceeded to bang my head repeatedly into my wall, cracking the drywall and creating small holes. My vision blurred and became spotted with black dots everywhere. Just before I would've passed out my dad stopped and threw me to the floor.
"Oh no you don't! You ain't passing out on me you son of a bitch!" he slurred, his words mixing together. He kicked my ribs, the other side this time, and I snapped back to the present and out of my temporarily fogged mind. Clutching my sides I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the next blow. When it didn't come I chanced a glance toward my dad, only to see that he'd left the room.
I released a shuddered breath, easing myself up from the ground. Once I was propped up on my elbows I closed my eyes and cried. While I cried I hit the hard wooden floor with my balled up fist. Slowly I felt my strength drain away, disolving into pure exhaustion. My hits slowed until I dropped to the floor, passed out cold.

I woke up to my alarm clock going off, it was about three-o-clock in the morning. My head was pounding as I got up. Dad was still asleep, I had two hours to do my chores. That wasn't so bad since I did most of them yesterday, scrubbing the bathroom as clean as humanly possible and then some, scrubbing the kitchen and diningroom in the same manor. I had to vaccume every single room, dust everything, and move certain things around. If and only if all of that is done by five may I beable to eat a small amount of something.
By four-thirty I was only on the diningroom, and I still hadn't even thought about the livingroom or even the other six rooms. I sighed sadly in defeat, knowing I wasn't going to eat this morning, yet again. I frowned with disbelief at myself, how could I be so damn slow? I was usually pretty fast, able to get my chores done before dad got up, but today I was slow as a turtle or even a snail! I wanted to hit myself in the head for my stupidity, but, for fear of passing out, didn't.
I was so busy being angry at myself that I didn't hear my dad come into the room. "Boy!" his voice boomed. I jumped into standing position, eyes on the floor. "Get me some ginger ale and pain killers, I got a wicked hangover."
I hurried off to the fridge and got a 24 ounce bottle of ginger ale. Then I grabbed the small bottle of tylonol and rushed to my dad, who had now plopped down on a wooden chair. Carefully setting the stuff down I returned to my standing stance, eyes glued to his feet. As he popped four pills into his mouth and sucked down a third of the soda I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of him gulping down the drink. I hoped he'd get heart burn, or serious pains in his chest from gulping down caffinne, but I'm never that lucky.
He slammed the bottle down on the table and looked at me. "Your chores ain't done yet, are they?" he mocked me. I shook my head no. "Are you hungy?" I nodded my head feebely. "So you really want to eat, huh?" Again I nodded my head. "Tough turkey shit! Your chores ain't done, that means you don't wanna eat!" Then he grabbed my face in his hand, squeezing my cheeks into my teeth. "Don't you fucking lie to me! You didn't finish your chores, that means you're not hungry! Why'd you lie and say you were? Huh, why you little shit? Why did you lie to me?" he kept yelling at my face angrily as he squeezed my cheeks more and more. As my jaw began to hurt he stopped ranting and put his face directly into mine, out noses almost touching.
"No, don't hurt me please." I tried to say but it sounded more like "Nuh, done her me pweeze." He let got a smacked my face hard.
"Don't hurt you? Don't hurt you?" he mocked as he smacked me again. "Did that hurt? Did I hurt you?" he said as-though talking to a baby. He smacked me again, harder this time. I winced and flinched and bit my lip to hold back tears. My face stung and was burning. Dad grabbed my face again, and squeezed until my cheeks touched each other.
My eyes teared and watered as I fought against him, barely able to hold onto his hands. At that moment it dawned on me, I could've stopped this at anytime, I could've told a teacher the truth, I could've called the police and told them what happened to me on a daily basis. I don't know what made me think about it, but as the realilization hit me I quickly began to hate myself, wishing I wasn't so afraid of my dad. Wish I wasn't held captive by the same fear that had me in the fetal position as dad kicked my sides and beat my face right now.
Suddenly dad stopped hitting me and grabbed my shirt collar. He carried me by my collar to my room and threw me into the metal frame of my bed. "Keep silent boy!" he hissed. I drew in a deep breath as he slammed my door shut. Faintly I heard the front door open, and a girls voice saying hello. I knew who it was, Kerry Lynn Wood. I prayed that dad would keep calm as he told her I was still asleep and that he would pass on the message to me when I got up. Kerry was explaining how she'd be gone for a few weeks of the summer.
I longed to go out there, hug her, ask for help, tell her to call the police, but I also knew that I didn't have the emotional strength to do it. I couldn't get my hopes up, only to have them torn down again. I didn't dare to tell her, because she'd tell her mom or grandma, who'd tell her she was imagining things and to stay out of our family business. Then they'd march her over here to appoligize to my dad for trying to spread lies, dad would act appauled over such an accusation. After they were gone he'd beat me to near death, then throw me into the closet until I could walk again, then he'd make me clean up the house to perfection.
I stayed in my room, silent as the dead, and waited for the door to slam shut. I waited for him to come back but he didn't, he heaved himself to the computer and flopped down on the chair. I curled my legs up tight into my chest and began to rock back and forth, I didn't cry, some how I had enough strenght to resist giving him that pleasure. Dad enjoyed seeing me cry, I knew this from the last time I ever cried when he was home. I was only seven.
I was doing my homework in the closet, light on, books sprawled out across the tiny space. Dad ripped open the door and grabbed me by my hair. He yanked me out of the closet into the kitchen, dropping me on the floor. I rubbed my head, my eyes tearing up with water. He kicked me repeatedly, again and again until I started to cry. Then he yelled "Cry you little shit, cry!" again and again. Whenever I stopped he took a knife and poked my arm with it to make me cry again. By the time he was finished my arm was numb and coated in blood, tiny holes all over it. I was dry heaving, the feeling of throwing up without accually throwing anything up, and he just left. He put on his coat, grabbed his keys, and left. My brother came home an hour later, he was in middle school so he came home an hour after me. When he got home he opened the front door and saw me laying on the floor, my shirt was covered in blood because I was cradleing it. I was barely moving, only shaking a little from shock I suppose. Michael ran up to me, dropping his bag, and lifted me up to make sure I was still alive. Michael carefully wrapped my arm after cleaning it up and disinfecting it. Dad didn't come home until hours later and he was drunk he passed out on the couch. Michael slept with me that night, hugging me to him and making me feel safe. I haven't cried since. I felt bad for making Michael sleep with me, for putting Michael through that, and so I've never cried again. I wince, flinch, hiss, sometimes scream out, but I haven't cried since.
Absent-mindedly I rubbed my arm, there weren't any scars or scratches left anymore, but the memory was burned into my mind so well that I could practically still feel the knife punching holes into my skin. My body shivers again, rocking even more, and my breath shudders softly. I didn't want to get up, I didn't want to move, all I wanted to do was lay down and go to sleep. An eternal-type sleep, one where you go to sleep and never wake up again. The type where everyone says 'Oh, it was sad. He just, died in his sleep'.
My dad stood up, the wood floor creaking under his weight. I stood up, my legs feeling like jelly, and, as the door flung open, I prepared myself by tensing my body. I didn't even see his hand.