Mona's Secret

“Lowly with my head bowed, there are rats everywhere
Feed me bread and water
I won’t die in there
Save me smiling Jesus, get off that cross
Hate me screaming masses
I don’t care if I’m lost…”

The song played softly, barely being registered by my resting mind. This was the best part of my day; lying mostly unconscious while the stereo played softly next to me. It was peaceful, calm; there was no shouting and no pain, no fear or anger. There was just darkness and music that I barely even paid attention to.

But as usual in my life, the peace is shattered by something annoying. This time it’s the alarm clock, blaring in my ear in what seems to be a volume ten times louder than the music. I shut it off and push myself into a standing position, walking away from the mattress lying on the floor in the corner, calling out to me to return to it. I pull my top drawer open and grab the first thing I see: a baggy, grey long sleeve shirt, very comfortable and very fitting of my personality. I throw it on and pull on my black skinny jeans from the day before.

Running my hands through my choppy blond hair, I approach the door and wait, listening intently. I hear no sounds over my soft music, no shouting or crying. This seems like the best time for me to leave. Quickly I snatch up my beat up messenger bag and shut off the stereo, heading out the door after throwing a random black hoodie over my shoulder. I navigate my way through the quiet house, dodging the spots that always creak and quickly lock the door behind me.

As soon as I’m a safe distance from the house I pull out my first generation iPod and put it on shuffle, jabbing the ear buds into my ears as deep as I can get them. Loud music flows into me and everything vanishes again. The thoughts and images of last night, the pain and the fear are all gone suddenly, as if they decided to go back to that house and just wait for me to come back.

And sadly I will be going back. School can only waste around eight hours of the day and then I will return and try to hide myself in my room again. But I am thankful for those eight hours of peace.
Because of my living situation, I wake up at six and leave as soon as possible. The doors to the school don’t actually open to students until seven and classes don’t start until seven thirty, so every morning I have at most a little under an hour to kill during my walk to school. But I don’t mind. It’s peaceful, and I’ll embrace anything that keeps me away from the chaos of that place.

The walk to school is uneventful. It’s fall and pretty cold, and the sun still hasn’t risen. Most people think for some reason that Georgia is always hot, but really we just have severe weather no matter what. Half of the year it’s blazing, and half of the year it’s freezing, and maybe we get a week or two every couple of months where the weather is somewhat pleasant.

I sit in a corner on the steps to the school and wait. After a while the janitor unlocks the door and holds it open for me, being completely used to seeing me curled up at the entrance. The halls are empty and quiet, but I don’t pay attention because I’m being deafened by my ear buds. I go to my usual spot in the commons and wait, watching as it slowly fills up until the bell rings.

Class starts, but nothing really changes for me. I don’t turn off my music and I don’t remove my ear buds. I just stare at the board and wait until it’s time to move to the next class. My teachers know that I’m doing this; they tried to make me stop and pay attention at first, but they gave up on me after a while. They think I’m damaged mentally or something, which could be possible given my circumstances. I get A’s and B’s in all my classes, so after a while they just gave up and left me alone. I no longer exist to them, which is fine; in the end, does it really even matter?

The only class that I actually participate in is art. I enter the class and sit at the back corner table by myself. No one in this school wants anything to do with me, not even the staff. Except the art teacher. Mr. Heeley is the only teacher in the school that seems to actually be concerned with the injuries that I frequently suffer from. I’m sure he knows what’s going on at home, but he can’t do anything about it unless I come forward. So as usual, after starting the class off and making his rounds to all the work tables, Mr. Heeley makes his way over to my lonely corner and kneels down across the table from me. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me work on my sketch and waits for me to get to a point where I want to stop. Eventually I put my pad of paper down and pull an ear bud out, giving him my attention.

Mr. Heeley flashes his usual smile at me, causing the usual wrinkles to form around his mouth and eyes. “How are you today, Mona?” he asks his usual question. His tone is light and friendly, but there’s always an underlying hint of concern in his voice when he speaks with me. I think he believes I’m going to just crumble into a million pieces one day.

I give my normal response to his question and just shrug, looking down at my half-finished sketch.

“What are you working on today?” he asks me and glances at my sketch pad, knowing that I didn’t listen to the project instructions at the beginning of the class.

I shrug again in response but also decide to add, “I’m trying to improve my eyes.”

Mr. Heeley nods and examines the partial sketch of an eye. “Well you’re doing great, Mona. If I might suggest, though, the sketch might benefit from a little extra shading right here,” he says, pointing to a specific spot within the iris. I stare down at it before picking up my pencil and applying more shading. When I finish I look back up at him. He smiles again and nods. “Yes, exactly like that.”

I look back down at the sketch and agree that it does in fact look better with more shading, so I nod and continue to work, but I leave my left ear bud out knowing that he’s not done talking.

“Mona,” his voice is serious now, but still soft and laced with concern, “how did you bust your lip open and get that bruise?”

I kept sketching, hearing the pencil scratching across the paper over the music blaring through my right ear. I wasn’t surprised by his question, I knew he was going to see the bruise from last night on my cheek and feel an obligation to ask about it. “I fell,” I gave as my simple answer, just like I did every time he asked.

Mr. Heeley frowned but nodded, standing from his kneeling position. “Well alright, but remember what I told you, Mona, I’m always here for you if you ever need to talk.”

I shrugged, not looking up from my sketch as I picked up my ear bud and replied, “Ok.” I heard him sigh and begin walking back to the front of the class as I shoved the ear bud back into my ear, giving my music and my sketch my full attention once again.

The last class finally ends and I watch as everyone rushes out the door, trying to get out as soon as possible. I don’t move until the last student is out and the teacher is erasing the board. Slowly I begin to stand, grabbing my bag and stuffing my hands in my hoodie pocket as I head for the door.

I try to walk as slowly as possible towards my home, not wanting to be a member of that reality again, but I arrive on my street faster than I would have liked and I unwillingly stuff my iPod deep into my bag. I know that if he saw it he would rip another thing that I loved from me, so I walk up the rest of the street towards my house in relative silence, allowing the thoughts and fears that I abandoned earlier in the morning to attack me and swallow me up once again.

I hesitate at the door, listening for any sign that I should probably not enter, but I hear nothing, so I quietly open and shut the door, heading straight for my room. I make it there safely; noticing as I passed his room that the TV was blaring, signaling that he was home but not yet drinking. Once I have the door closed, I lean against it and let out a sigh of relief. Collapsing onto my pathetic bed, I pull my homework out and begin teaching myself the chapters I was supposed to be learning during class.

A few hours later I hear the front door close and suddenly he’s talking, and she’s replying, but there’s no shouting, so I don’t start to worry yet. But not long after the conversation stops, there’s footsteps approaching my door and I feel my breath catch a little bit, leading to me halting my breathing altogether. I wait for the door to burst open, for his angry figure to fill the doorway and continue where he left off last night, but all that happens is a sharp, loud knock on my door, followed by his gruff voice, “Hey, Crystal brought home dinner, so get your ass out here and eat.” He turns around immediately and I hear his footsteps fade away.

I let out a sigh of relief and put my homework aside. Quietly, I make my way out of my room and towards the kitchen. I learned very quickly after moving back in with my father that the quieter I am, the less annoyed he is with my presence, so being like a ghost is my goal whenever I’m in the house with him.

He’s already sitting at the table with Crystal when I enter the kitchen and they’re both eating what looks like Chinese takeout. Keeping my head down, I make my way to my seat and open the to-go box in front of me. I stare at it, trying to figure out what she got me.

“It’s chicken and rice and those weird noodle things with the vegetables,” Crystal says, giving me one of her looks that shows her disapproval of my actions.

“Doesn’t matter what it is, just eat it,” dad says, a hint of aggravation in his voice. I look over at him to see the glare he has fixed on me. His jaw is set tight, a deep frown playing across his mouth, and his grip on his fork tightens, showing his growing annoyance. I suppress the urge to run from the room and quickly pick my own fork up. I start eating and everything is quiet again. All is fine until I take a bite of the chicken. The chicken is spicy, I can’t stand spicy foods. My mouth starts feeling like it’s catching on fire and I stop chewing abruptly, spitting the spicy chicken back out into the box.

This, however, is a very bad idea.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks angrily, slamming his fork onto the table. I look between my dad and his girlfriend, who is trying to hide her smirk; she planned it all out.

“I-I didn’t realize it was spicy chicken,” I answer quietly even though my fate is sealed and there’s no escaping what’s about to happen.

“Who the fuck cares if it’s spicy? Crystal bought that with my money, and you’re just going to sit here and waste it because you’re a picky bitch?” he growls, starting to stand slowly.

I shake my head quickly and stab another piece of chicken with my fork. “I’ll eat it, I swear. I was just surprised,” my voice shakes as I plead with him, hoping for him to sit back down and start ignoring me again.

Suddenly his hand shoots out and he knocks the take out box off the table, scattering the contents across the floor. I cringe at his action and feel his hand grasp my upper arm tightly, yanking me from my chair and almost knocking the table over.

“You’re too good to eat the same food as us, huh?” he shouts, his anger in full swing now.

“No, Dad, please, I didn’t mean—”

“I’m talking!” he shouts, shaking me roughly. I’m trembling like a leaf and tears are beginning to slide down my cheeks. “Well if the food that I paid for isn’t good enough for you, than maybe we should just let you go without dinner for a few nights and see how you feel about it then.”

I suppress I sigh of relief, thinking that this might be the lightest punishment he’s ever given. He must still be sober.

He shoves me to the floor and I feel the familiar burning ache in my knees and arms. “Now clean this shit up,” he orders gruffly and motions to my scattered meal as he sits down.

I’m not going to make him tell me twice. I instantly get up and limp over to the broom and dustpan, beginning the process of sweeping up the food. I clean the mess as fast and as quietly as I can and then make my way back to my room.

Once safely inside, I make my way to my dresser and the cracked mirror that hangs above it. I lift my left sleeve and prod the tender skin of my upper arm. I can feel a bruise forming, but I can already tell that it’s only going to last a day or two. My side, however, is a different story. I pull my shirt up slightly and view my already blue and yellow sides. There’s a throbbing in my side where I rammed into the table, but I’m not sure if a new bruise will form or if one of my many bruises in that area will just take longer to heal. I have to admit though; I’ve never come out of a confrontation with my father with such little pain.

My eyes drift away from my damaged body and towards my face. I’m pale, almost like a china doll. I’ve always been pale, but lately it seems like the color is slowly fading from me the longer I live here. Maybe it’s an indication of my life drifting away from me. I’m sure I could pass as a fading ghost with how pale my skin and blonde hair are.

I make myself turn away from the mirror, pulling my sleeve back down to hide the bruises from not only the world but also myself. If I don’t see them, then I don’t dwell on the pain, and I don’t find myself thinking about when I lived with my mom, when he wasn’t able to hurt us.

Before I can start thinking too deeply about things, I flop back onto my mattress and pull my schoolwork into my lap, keeping myself busy until I hear his door close and know that I’m safe for the night.