Knives and Pens
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
The streets of New York were jammed with traffic; the yelling of bystanders made my ears buzz. Hot dog venders shouted catchy slogans to try and attract customers while other people scurried across the street. The sweet smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels filled the air with its sweet sugary scent.
I loved the city; it was the liveliest place in the world. It was never calm, always something happening and changing. I passed the street of Broadway, seeing the line of people waiting to get into the theater. My apartment sat a block away. I paused to let the cars pass by, then ran across the pavement onto the cement.
The old red brick building stood five stories tall; the brick was worn down with graffiti sprayed around it. I opened the door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When I reached my apartment I shoved the key into the keyhole and turned the lock, pushing the door open.
“Mom?” I called only to be answered by nothing.
“Robin?” I tried again. And from around the corner emerged my little sister, holding her small teddy bear. Robin’s dark auburn hair was ruffled and her eyelids were drooping, showing that she had just woken up from a nap. “Hey kid,”
“Hi Harley,” Robin said, rubbing her eyes.
“Where’s mom?” I said as I dropped my bag onto the couch.
“Out with Dennis.”
I grimaced. I can’t believe she hasn’t dumped that guy yet.
“You hungry?”
Robin nodded her head vigorously, a wide smile stretching across her lips. I laughed and guided her to the kitchen. She hopped up onto one of the chairs while I rummaged through the fridge for any source of food.
I pulled out a bag of Italian bread, sliced turkey, cheese, and a paper plate from the cabinet. I fixed together two sandwiches and set the plate down in front of her and the other in front of me.
We ate in silence and when we were done I threw out the plates, grabbed a Diet Coke, led Robin into her room, before going to my own. I turned on my small stereo and lay back against the headboard of the bed. My eyes closed, my foot tapping along to the beat of the rock n’ roll music, while I took small sips from the soda can.
In the end
As you fade into the night
Who will tell the story of your life
And who will remember your last goodbye
Cause it’s the end
And I’m not afraid to die
I let the music purse through me, listening to every lyric and imagining the story within. My eyes slid open and I tugged the sleeve of my shirt up, revealing every heart-breaking story no one will ever get to know. I traced each scar, a feather-light touch on the new and sensitive ones. My friends say I do it for attention. Why would I want the attention and pity? I don’t, I just have no other way to take all the anger and pain out. I deserve this. I deserve every cut and beating that comes my way.
Memories flooded my brain, and I see my dad in his study, scanning paperwork and typing on his computer. A seven-year-old Harley Ochs stood in the threshold hugging a stuffed lion. Her hair was ruffled and her eyes still filled with sleep.
“Daddy?” She said.
The mortician turned around and a warm smile appeared on his wrinkled face. He set the paperwork on the desk and held out his arms. “Come here, baby girl.” And the young Harley jumped onto his lap and snuggled into his chest.
“I can’t sleep,” The little girl said. The mortician smiled and rocked her back and forth.
Won't you play the music so the cradle can rock,
to a lullaby in ragtime,
Sleepy hands are creeping to the end of the clock,
play a lullaby in ragtime.
You can tell the sandman is on his way,
by the way that they play,
As still as the trill of a thrush in a twilight high.
I could still imagine his voice; it felt so much like honey, smooth and perfect in every way.
Crash!
Then the sound of his voice was gone, replaced by breaking glass and muffled screams. I jumped from the bed and bolted into the kitchen. There on the ground lay my mother cowered in fear and beside her a shattered vase. A large bulky man stood above her, his hands in fists and a growl in his voice. The smell of old alcohol radiated off his body.
“Dennis!” I roared. His angry green eyes shifted in my direction. His tight fists loosened, he knew he couldn’t hurt me. He knew if he did, my mother wouldn’t think twice about sending him to jail.
“Stay out of this.” He growled.
“I think you need to stay out of this house.” I motioned to the door. “Oh, look it’s the door. I suggest you use it.”
Dennis’s bushy eyebrows crease together, anger boiling up in his stone cold black heart. His eyes went back to my mother who was still on the ground.
“We’re not finished yet.”
Then he left, slamming the door on his way out.
I grabbed my mother’s hand and helped her to her feet. She staggered a bit which showed she had clearly been drinking. Her blonde hair was messy and tangled.
“What happened?” I said as I helped her sit on one of the kitchen stools.
“I told Dennis he shouldn’t have anymore beer for the night and he yelled at me. I told him he was being an ass and that must have set him off.” My mother said, resting her head against her palm.
“Will you be okay for the night?”
“I’ll be fine,” She nodded. “Where are you going?”
“My school is having an art show, and my teacher wants me to be there.”
She nodded again, “Okay,”
I gave a half-hearted side smile then grabbed my bag and phone before leaving the apartment building.
The streets of New York were jammed with traffic; the yelling of bystanders made my ears buzz. Hot dog venders shouted catchy slogans to try and attract customers while other people scurried across the street. The sweet smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels filled the air with its sweet sugary scent.
I loved the city; it was the liveliest place in the world. It was never calm, always something happening and changing. I passed the street of Broadway, seeing the line of people waiting to get into the theater. My apartment sat a block away. I paused to let the cars pass by, then ran across the pavement onto the cement.
The old red brick building stood five stories tall; the brick was worn down with graffiti sprayed around it. I opened the door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When I reached my apartment I shoved the key into the keyhole and turned the lock, pushing the door open.
“Mom?” I called only to be answered by nothing.
“Robin?” I tried again. And from around the corner emerged my little sister, holding her small teddy bear. Robin’s dark auburn hair was ruffled and her eyelids were drooping, showing that she had just woken up from a nap. “Hey kid,”
“Hi Harley,” Robin said, rubbing her eyes.
“Where’s mom?” I said as I dropped my bag onto the couch.
“Out with Dennis.”
I grimaced. I can’t believe she hasn’t dumped that guy yet.
“You hungry?”
Robin nodded her head vigorously, a wide smile stretching across her lips. I laughed and guided her to the kitchen. She hopped up onto one of the chairs while I rummaged through the fridge for any source of food.
I pulled out a bag of Italian bread, sliced turkey, cheese, and a paper plate from the cabinet. I fixed together two sandwiches and set the plate down in front of her and the other in front of me.
We ate in silence and when we were done I threw out the plates, grabbed a Diet Coke, led Robin into her room, before going to my own. I turned on my small stereo and lay back against the headboard of the bed. My eyes closed, my foot tapping along to the beat of the rock n’ roll music, while I took small sips from the soda can.
In the end
As you fade into the night
Who will tell the story of your life
And who will remember your last goodbye
Cause it’s the end
And I’m not afraid to die
I let the music purse through me, listening to every lyric and imagining the story within. My eyes slid open and I tugged the sleeve of my shirt up, revealing every heart-breaking story no one will ever get to know. I traced each scar, a feather-light touch on the new and sensitive ones. My friends say I do it for attention. Why would I want the attention and pity? I don’t, I just have no other way to take all the anger and pain out. I deserve this. I deserve every cut and beating that comes my way.
Memories flooded my brain, and I see my dad in his study, scanning paperwork and typing on his computer. A seven-year-old Harley Ochs stood in the threshold hugging a stuffed lion. Her hair was ruffled and her eyes still filled with sleep.
“Daddy?” She said.
The mortician turned around and a warm smile appeared on his wrinkled face. He set the paperwork on the desk and held out his arms. “Come here, baby girl.” And the young Harley jumped onto his lap and snuggled into his chest.
“I can’t sleep,” The little girl said. The mortician smiled and rocked her back and forth.
Won't you play the music so the cradle can rock,
to a lullaby in ragtime,
Sleepy hands are creeping to the end of the clock,
play a lullaby in ragtime.
You can tell the sandman is on his way,
by the way that they play,
As still as the trill of a thrush in a twilight high.
I could still imagine his voice; it felt so much like honey, smooth and perfect in every way.
Crash!
Then the sound of his voice was gone, replaced by breaking glass and muffled screams. I jumped from the bed and bolted into the kitchen. There on the ground lay my mother cowered in fear and beside her a shattered vase. A large bulky man stood above her, his hands in fists and a growl in his voice. The smell of old alcohol radiated off his body.
“Dennis!” I roared. His angry green eyes shifted in my direction. His tight fists loosened, he knew he couldn’t hurt me. He knew if he did, my mother wouldn’t think twice about sending him to jail.
“Stay out of this.” He growled.
“I think you need to stay out of this house.” I motioned to the door. “Oh, look it’s the door. I suggest you use it.”
Dennis’s bushy eyebrows crease together, anger boiling up in his stone cold black heart. His eyes went back to my mother who was still on the ground.
“We’re not finished yet.”
Then he left, slamming the door on his way out.
I grabbed my mother’s hand and helped her to her feet. She staggered a bit which showed she had clearly been drinking. Her blonde hair was messy and tangled.
“What happened?” I said as I helped her sit on one of the kitchen stools.
“I told Dennis he shouldn’t have anymore beer for the night and he yelled at me. I told him he was being an ass and that must have set him off.” My mother said, resting her head against her palm.
“Will you be okay for the night?”
“I’ll be fine,” She nodded. “Where are you going?”
“My school is having an art show, and my teacher wants me to be there.”
She nodded again, “Okay,”
I gave a half-hearted side smile then grabbed my bag and phone before leaving the apartment building.