Struggles

~-Chapter 3-~

One week had passed since the summer began, I already couldn't wait for school to start again. Although most kids wanted summer to last forever I disagreed. I emailed Chaz the other day; he wouldn't stop talking about how much he wished that summer would never end. I told him that I wished summer break was shorter than Easter break, which is one day off of school. Chaz, of course, thought I was insane. But he'd agree whole-heartedly with me if he knew my situation. And if I was in his place, I'd probably agree with him too, but I wouldn't trade places anyone ever.
I tried to call Michael today while dad was at work, but he of course didn't answer. Sometimes I envied Michael, because of his freedom from this house and our father. I looked around the house, not sure what to do. Dad had left me with a list load of chores to do before he got home but I'd done most of them the night before.
Slowly I went back to my room and sat down on the floor. I wasn't used to free time during the summer; it was like an adult being allowed to play on a bouncy castle again. I looked at my book bag and snatched it. Pulling it to me I grabbed a book out of it, "Stitches", it was a memoir in graphic novel form by David Small. I flipped through it and smiled. The boy in it had survived cancer without even knowing it was cancer, had to relearn how to talk, dealt with a mother who didn't love him, a father who'd given him the cancer in the first place, and a whole mess load of unknown thoughts flying through his head.
I heard a car door outside and I threw the book under my bed, I wouldn't let dad find it, take it, and destroy it, I loved books and wouldn't stand for him hurting them. I stood up and ran to the kitchen, grabbing a sponge on my way. There was a feminine knock on the door, not dad at all. I sighed in relief as I opened the door.
"Oh! Marcus!" the women said, surprised. I knew her; she was Ms. Tammy Bridge, my middle school English teacher.
"Hey Ms. Bridge, how're you?" I asked, confused by the sudden visit.
"Oh, I uh, came to speak with your father, is he home?" Ms. Bridge asked craning her neck to see into the living room. When she leaned over her soft brown hair grazed my nose and her scented rose perfume over powered my smell.
"No, he's still at work. Is there anything I can help you with?" I offered. She shook her head no.
"No, no, no....Well, maybe. May I come in?" she asked taking a step forward. Instinctively I stepped back. She noticed and looked at me curiously.
To cover myself, I quickly said "Sure, come on in". Ms Bridge came in and shed her sweatshirt, revealing a pink thin strapped shirt.
"So, what can I help you with?" I asked taking her coat and laying it down on the couch.
"Well, I was wondering about you actually. I was going to ask your father if you were okay since I last saw you three years ago. I know I was just a seventh grade math teacher to you, but I think about you and I worry about you, even today." Ms. Bridge sits down on the couch and fans her hand in front of her face. Dad had left the house ablaze so I wouldn't be very comfortable.
"I..." I tried to say but she cut me off quickly.
"The last time I saw you, Marcus, you had cuts all over your face and you looked dazed, like you were half-dead. When I asked your father about it he said you were....troubled, and were hurting yourself. I don't believe that but...Marcus, tell me the truth, please." she finished.
I looked at her, dumbfounded, as I blinked at her words. I remembered that day; it was the end of my seventh grade year. I had had an 'F' in gym for refusing to dress appropriately. Dad had told me to never change for the school because I had scars and, on typical gym days, fresh scratches and bruises. The gym teacher called dad about my failing and dad beat the crap out of me, and then made me clean all of the bedroom walls with pure bleach. So not only was I hurt but I was also dazed with toxins. As soon as I was finished dad drove me to the school to talk to my teachers, Ms. Bridge included. What'd dad say about my appearance? It was my fault of course!
Ms. Bridge coughed politely and I blinked again. "Oh, yeah, well...Okay, the truth is exactly what my dad told ya'll." I lied through my teeth. Ms. Bridge knew I was lying, and she shook her head slowly at the lie.
"Marcus, I was in no way born yesterday. I can most certainly tell when you're lying to me! The truth, Marcus, now!" Ms. Bridge demanded. I looked at her, my eyes pulsing with sadness.
"Don't, Ms. Bridge, don't go there please." I begged. Before she pushed any farther another car door slammed outside, it was an angry slam, the same slam my dad did every day. "Did you park across the street?"
"Yes, Marcus, I did. Are you trying to change the subject on me?" Ms. Bridge said pointing her finger at me.
"Go, get out!" I shouted pushing her to the back door. I looked behind me; dad hadn’t reached the door yet. I opened the back door and pushed her out. "Come back later, or tomorrow, I don't care! But don't come back when my dad's home or coming home! Or just don't come back!" I said slamming the back door in her face. She stood there stunned, looking inside the window. I closed the curtain and grabbed the sponge.
Dad busted in through the door, anger plastered on his face. He'd had a bad day, which was pretty obvious. He stormed right from the door to the kitchen where I stood with the dry, unused sponge in my hand. He slapped me, which I knew was coming.
"Why the hell aren't you finished with this kitchen? Huh? Answer me boy!" he yelled at me, walking toward me until I was hunched into a corner. I stuttered and stammered, trying to get words to come out, but the only noise I made was a whimper. He smacked me on my arm as he lifted me to a completely straight position. I shied my face away from him as he hit me again.
I sunk lower and lower into the corner as his swings became more and more wild, having no direction but forward. An hour later he stood up and looked at me, his eyes cursing my very existence. He wiped his arm across his forehead, catching all the sweat that was dripping, and closed his eyes. After a minute, me not breathing and him not moving, he sighed at me as though to say "It's your entire fault, Marcus, why were you even born?” Then he walked away, as though nothing had happened, or as though all that had just happened was more like a fatherly-son chat and not a father-trying-to-kill-son beating.
After a while I slowly stood up and inched my way, close to the walls, and to my room. I didn't bother going to the bathroom to see how I looked, there was no reason to. I've seen this face a thousand times in a thousand different ways, never even once smiling. I stopped looking in the mirror for the most part, only once in a while glancing, because I always had the same face. I wondered what Ms. Bridge saw when she saw me today. Probably either a terrible, beat up face or a fake smile plastered on.
In my room I knew I'd fall apart, just remembering the look on Ms. Bridges face, so I grabbed my comforter and sat down in my dark closet. I closed the door and covered my entire body with the blanket. Only then did I cry, my shoulders shuddering and breath hitching in my throat. I cried for hours, I'm sure exactly how many. When I stopped crying I heard the couch springs creek, dad was going to bed. This made me cry again, even harder. I wasn't sure if the tears this time came from relief of him going to sleep and me having temporary freedom, or if it was from my relief of surviving another day, but either way I cried.
Safe in my closet I eventually fell asleep and I had a dream. In the dream there was no sky and no ground, I was running in thick, slushy red water, with a deep red background. I kept looking behind me like I was being chased, but every time I looked there was nobody there. I ran and ran, heaving and gasping for air but refusing to stop. Something caught on my foot and I landed face-first into the water. I wiped my face but the thick water wouldn't come off, I looked at my hands and cried out, it was blood. I screamed at the top of my lungs and tried to stand up but my legs wouldn't work. I screamed again and cried out, trying to get out of the blood. It started to rain but it wasn't water either. A shadow passed over me and I jerked up to see what it was. It was a big black boot the size of my head, and it kicked my face. I fell backwards, blood gushing up all around me. The boot came down onto my head in the same way a person would mindlessly squish a bug or an ant.
I woke up in a cold sweat, panting as I threw off the blanket and flung open the closet door. I tumbled out and landed on my hands and knees, still trying to breath. As I shuddered a breath my eyes watered up, I had that dream for a reason. That reason was to basically say that I was dealing with a lot of abuse that I can't escape, and in the end, well, there will be no end. I'm going to die in this house and that's that, there's nothing more for me.
I got up and went to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror, and went straight to the toilet. I threw up what little food I still had in me. I shuddered at the smell of the vomit and flushed. Nervously I glanced into the mirror. If I were on the outside looking in right now I'd faint at the sight of the mirrors reflection. My face was coated in dried, crusty blood from the night before. My eyes were sunken and red and I had dark bags under them. It looked like my nose was broken, but I wasn't sure. I had a long cut down the side of my nose and it was crooked, I was sure it was broken. I gripped my nose between thumb and pointer finger, took a deep breath and yanked it back to the center, I sucked in a deep breath and tried to not to yell or anything. My nose was bleeding again, so I stuffed rolled up toilet paper in my nose and went back to my room to grab some clothes for my shower.
I turned on the hot water, which burned my skin and seared my cuts. I stood there, under the burning water, for awhile. I didn't want to move at all. I closed my eyes and looked up, letting the water hit my face. I carefully cleaned my face, scrubbing off all the dry blood and gingerly cleaning the cuts and gashes in my skin. I shivered as the water went off. The air was cold outside the tub, so I quickly dried off and got dressed.
Quietly I slipped back into my room and looked at my clock, it was just after ten in the morning; it was so late that dad was already at work. I sighed in relief of avoiding him. I smiled slightly as I left my room and went to the kitchen in search for something to eat. Dad had left me some stale toast and a chore list. I quickly choked down the toast and read over the list of chores.
I had to get all of these chores down by the time dad got home, or I’d face another night very similar to the night before. The list looked like this:

CLEANING LIST:

KITCHEN:
Remove all cobwebs
Spot wash cabinets and drawers exteriors
Hand-wash light switch plate
Clean small appliances(toaster type ect.)
Clean and disinfect counters
Hand-wash all dishes in sink
Scour sink and polish fixtures
Clean stove top of all grease
Clean microwave(in and out)
Clean oven(in and out)
Empty and clean trash cans
Vacuum and wash floor

BATHROOM:
Dust light fixtures
Remove all cobwebs
Spot wash cabinet(exterior)
Hand-wash light switch plate
Clean shower, tile, and tub
Scrub sink and counter
Clean and shine fixtures
Clean mirror and shower glass
Scrub toilet
Remove trash and clean can
Sweep and hand-wash floor

LIVING ROOM:
Dust ceiling fan blades
Remove all cobwebs
Hand-wash light switch plate
Dust blinds(both sides)
Wipe down window sills
Wipe down/dust furniture
Vacuum chair and couch
Straighten up
Dust baseboards/knick-nacks
Clean front door glass
Vacuum floor

BEDROOMS:
Dust ceiling fan blades
Remove all cobwebs
Wipe-down window sills
Dust blinds(both sides)
Wipe-down/dust mirrors
Hand-wash light switch plate
Wipe-down/dust furniture
Straighten up
Change linens on beds
Remove trash and clean cans
Dust baseboards
Clean/vacuum floor

I set the list down, how could dad ever expect me to finish such a list before he got home in seven hours? He didn’t, that much was obvious. Dad had intended for me to not complete my assigned chores by the required time, he was, yet again, being a vindictive and evil father.
I nodded to myself; I simply had to do this, just to prove a point to dad that I can do it. Although, if I do that then he’ll expect even more of me and he’ll start to add things to the list until I pass out from exhaustion. I shook my head slowly; dad would enjoy that wouldn’t he? That vindictive bastard enjoys my pain and suffering.
I shook my head, that wasn’t my concern. My concern was to complete my chores without complaining, and then I’d get some food and be happy (or as happy as I can be in my situation anyways). I grabbed the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and a chair. Standing on the chair I began to scrub the cabinets until they turned from their cream-ish color to the white that they once were. As I cleaned I hummed a lullaby that my mother had once sung to me as a child, it was Spanish so I didn’t know all the words or the meaning of some of the words, but the tune of it was soothing.
I was humming when there was a knock at the door. I carefully stepped off of the chair and went to the door. Without thinking I swung it open to reveal Ms.
Bridge standing awkwardly with her hand still raised, about to knock again.
“Ms. Bridge?!"