Four Days
1/1
Boom... boom... boom... The drumsticks beat down. They beat down with the force of an abuser. And I sat in the distraught and dull room, beating my drum with that strength. And with each lifeless thud of the drumsticks, my mind wandered to the sights and the sounds, to the cries and the pleads of mercy, pleads that were ignored and murdered in the cold night. I was a young girl four days ago.
My papa had been drunk, mama had been a ghost. I just wanted to play with my drum and my doll, I just wanted to play. "No," my whiskey-ridden papa breathed. "No!" my papa screamed. I apologized but papa didn't care, he didn't want to hear my excuses, he told me, as he undid his dirty leather belt. Two whips and he would be done. Two whips like always. Mama was a ghost and when my eyes cried to her with silence and longing, mama gazed back with emptiness. Dinner wasn't for me that night, only a dirty leather belt, and then a distraught and dull room with a single doll and drum. That night, their young daughter died. And so that night, when the moon finally reached its peak, what was left of that girl left her distraught and dull room and sauntered into the kitchen. That night, the dirty leather belt was picked up for the last time. My papa and mama were sleeping soundly, papa snoring slightly. In his sleep, he scratched his stomach and let out a sigh, turning onto his side, his back against mama. Mama lay like an autumn leaf, ready to break with a sickening crunch at any moment.
I had that dirty leather belt in my hand and for an eternity, I stared at my papa and mama. Unwanted memories fought through my mind. "Stop," I commanded. "Stop!" I screamed and swung down the buckle of that dirty leather belt onto my papa's temple. He let out a confused yelp but just like those hated memories, I didn't stop swinging down. Papa cried out and told me to "Stop! Stop! Ana!" My screams were constant and powerful just as his had been, my papa taught me well. Finally, my voice had been let free, and I beat down the belt until my papa lay still and when he laid still, the dirty leather belt was done.
Many moments passed as I stood in the tundra room. My mama was in the corner of the bedroom crying. I walked past her and for the first time in the nine years of my life, I smiled.
Four days it's been. Four days I've counted, abusing my drum since those four days have passed. And I remember. I was a young girl four days ago.
My papa had been drunk, mama had been a ghost. I just wanted to play with my drum and my doll, I just wanted to play. "No," my whiskey-ridden papa breathed. "No!" my papa screamed. I apologized but papa didn't care, he didn't want to hear my excuses, he told me, as he undid his dirty leather belt. Two whips and he would be done. Two whips like always. Mama was a ghost and when my eyes cried to her with silence and longing, mama gazed back with emptiness. Dinner wasn't for me that night, only a dirty leather belt, and then a distraught and dull room with a single doll and drum. That night, their young daughter died. And so that night, when the moon finally reached its peak, what was left of that girl left her distraught and dull room and sauntered into the kitchen. That night, the dirty leather belt was picked up for the last time. My papa and mama were sleeping soundly, papa snoring slightly. In his sleep, he scratched his stomach and let out a sigh, turning onto his side, his back against mama. Mama lay like an autumn leaf, ready to break with a sickening crunch at any moment.
I had that dirty leather belt in my hand and for an eternity, I stared at my papa and mama. Unwanted memories fought through my mind. "Stop," I commanded. "Stop!" I screamed and swung down the buckle of that dirty leather belt onto my papa's temple. He let out a confused yelp but just like those hated memories, I didn't stop swinging down. Papa cried out and told me to "Stop! Stop! Ana!" My screams were constant and powerful just as his had been, my papa taught me well. Finally, my voice had been let free, and I beat down the belt until my papa lay still and when he laid still, the dirty leather belt was done.
Many moments passed as I stood in the tundra room. My mama was in the corner of the bedroom crying. I walked past her and for the first time in the nine years of my life, I smiled.
Four days it's been. Four days I've counted, abusing my drum since those four days have passed. And I remember. I was a young girl four days ago.
♠ ♠ ♠
Yup, that's it, all 464 glorious words of it. Thanks for reading.