Bruise by Freaking Bruise

I consider the bruises on my arms and legs as trophies. Not for me winning something, but me surviving the things people have done to me.
Lately, the bruises have becoming more rampant. Especially on my arms and legs. He doesn’t mean to do it, or at least that is what mom says. I think he does, but by saying he doesn’t, mom will always forgive him. When she does, I have to walk away because the thought of my mother being with a man who hits her on a regular isn’t right.
He isn’t my dad. That fact makes this whole situation worst. He hits me and mom and shows no remorse, except for when mom packs to leave. The thing that irritates me is how mom never really packs. She declares to him many times that she is leaving then goes upstairs to pack. Another thing that crawls under my skin is she never calls me and tells me to go with her. It is like I mean nothing to her.
The reason why I mentioned that is because this very thing is happening now. Mom and Frankie are at it again. The sound of glass crashing against the thin plaster doesn’t scare me anymore. I don’t show my face anymore, I’d rather just sit in my room. There is no peace in this house, but my room is my safe haven.
So when I heard heavy footsteps echoing on the thin floor, I didn’t flinch. I still didn’t when the door was kicked open, the doorknob spinning across the wood floor like a spintop. I didn’t even look up when Frankie grabbed a handful of my shirt and tried to yank me off the floor.
I didn’t look him directly in the eye, he takes that as a challenge. But he doesn’t want you to look away from him either, he likes attention. My eyes fell under his.
He opened his mouth to talk and the stench of stale liquor and morning breath filled my nostrils. “What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was slurred and his eyes were yellowed.
I didn’t answer.
“Answer me, boy!” he screamed, throwing me on to the ground.
“N-nothing,” I stammered.
I know now that by me being on the ground talking up to him he felt an impulse to land his foot in my stomach. A thick, fuzzy substance oozed from out of my mouth.
He let out a triumphant laugh and walked out, leaving me laying on the ground in the puddle of my own vomit.
I lay there for what felt like fifteen minutes. I hadn’t realized that I fell asleep. I hadn’t really paid any attention to the stabbing pain in my abdomen. But when I sat up, a quiet cry came from my dry throat. There was vomit soaked in my shirt and hair. I lifted my shirt and saw the big bruise across my stomach.
My autopilot set in and I no longer felt the stabbing pain.
That may sound crazy, but I have been beaten by this man since I was little. I was five years old getting beatings that would scare off a forty-five year old body builder. Now that I am thirteen, he has definitely stepped up his fight.
I stood and stretched. It hurt like something special, but my autopilot wouldn’t allow me to cry anymore.
My tears don’t work anymore. When I was little, I used to cry by the door as mom was being beaten, but after a while of seeing her allow Frankie to beat her like a punching bag, I quit with the tears and retreated to my safe haven.
My autopilot is the thing inside me that kicks in whenever it feels I am about to cry. It is something like a conscious, but instead of telling me what is right and what is wrong, it tells me when to and when not to cry. It works a bunch. When I am being beaten or when I hear mom being beaten, I know that the sound of your mother crying is enough to make a kid go crazy. I have a couple of times, running down to moms side, trying as much as I could to shield her body with my own. But she would push me away and continue to get beaten.
Whenever she had the opportunity to leave, she never did. Excuses would fly out of her mouth like water out of a cracked dam. I learned to ignore her cries, because they were always empty. She never really wanted help, she just screamed for the fun of it.
We aren’t close to any family. Frankie made sure he moved us away from them. I would move away, but then Frankie would just follow my blood trail to the bus station. Literally.
I walked to the bathroom almost fearlessly. I grabbed moms unused cleaning supplies and cleaned the vomit off my floor.
“Jordan,” a raspy voice called. “Jordan, come ‘ere.”
I put down the mop and walked in the direction of the voice.
Summer hasn’t been going on for a long time, but I still don’t really remember what mom looks like. She isn’t the beautiful, lively girl that is in the pictures I kept in my room under the bed anymore. Now, she is a torn looking woman who looks almost homeless. So when I saw a woman sitting on the floor holding her stomach with one hand and steadying herself on the floor with the other, I almost didn’t know who she was. Literally and metaphorically.
“Yeah?” I asked. Something about being in moms presence, makes me want to go vomit, but I am already empty from Frankie’s kick.
She scowled. “What?”
“What do you want, ma?” I said. Even though I always try to hide it, the disgust in my voice was unable to be covered. I honestly don’t think I want hide it anymore.
“I called your...” she looked toward her feet but my eyes were concentrated on her face. The bruises on her face aren’t covered with the usual make up. They caused her face to look almost broken.
She let out a wail and my autopilot faltered.
But she wasn’t screaming in pain. She was screaming because of the river of blood skating across the floor from under her skirt. The blood looked endless.
“Call the ambulance!” she screamed.
I don’t know if I ran, walked, slid, flew, or floated over to the phone, but I dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the nasal voice spoke.
“My mom is bleeding. It is like a river of blood.” I almost screamed.
My autopilot kicked back in and the feeling was drained form my voice.
“Okay, stay on the line.” the lady said.
I obliged but the blood was continuing from mom. I had the distant feeling that it would be the last time I ever heard or seen my mother.
The medics walked in and gasped at the amount of blood that mom has already loss.
They lifted mom onto the stretcher and pushed her out fairly quickly, but everything was moving in slow motion.
There was a man trying to talk to me, but I understood no word from his mouth. My eyes were glued to the spot where mom was. The blood was gone, but the scent was still there.
“...young man.” the medic continued.
I looked at him. There was a rush of some warm feeling that passed through me. My autopilot sputtered.
The medic continued to talk to me. “Do you now how this happened?”
I shook my head. “Frankie.” I mumbled.
“Excuse me?” he asked. But I am quite sure he knew how this happened as much as I.

***********************************

Mom was pregnant. She didn’t know and I was kind of grossed out about it. How could you sleep with the man that makes it a practice to beat you into a pulp on a regular bases?
A tear did not fall when I walked into the room. Mom had an IV in her arm and her eyes fluttered. I knew that she wouldn’t leave Frankie even now. He killed my baby brother or sister before they even formed into a human. That is just low.
I sat next to the window and stared out the window. Maybe it was good that the baby died now. Frankie would probably kill the baby within the first month of it’s life. I slowly peeled up my shirt and examined the bruise that took up the majority of my stomach. I knew that something inside me was faltering, my gut felt funny.
“What is that, son?” a nurse said. I ripped my shirt down and turned around too quicky and my autopilot failed. I let out a light whimper.
“Are you okay?” she asked. She reached out for my shirt but I pushed her arm away.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“No you are not.” She reached out for my shirt again. She grabbed it and lifted it. The big shoe print flashed in the light of the room. I felt ashamed when she looked at me. Her eyes were filled with pity. I hate pity.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the seat next to the window. “Let’s get you an x-ray.”
Autopilot told me to run at the next available exit, but the way the nurse gripped my arm, I wasn’t going anywhere. She led me to the elevator and we walked to the nurses station.
“Hey Carmen,”the nurse said to another nurse.
The nurse and the other lady wrapped my arm in a blood pressure thing and took my temperature. They then led me to the room where they gave me a papery gown and waited for me to change. I had a feeling that I would regret going through with this, but I don’t care right now. All I want is for the pain to stop.
The ladies walked back in. “Ready? The machine is all ready for you.”
I followed them to the room with the big x-ray machine sat. I gulped and followed the nurses directions.