Prayer of the Refugee

He pressed me against the wall and wrapped his hand tightly around my throat until I nearly blacked out. Still, I spat at him and cussed him out. I got a slap across the face as punishment and a stern reminder that he was my father and I was his property. He was right about one thing, I was his property, but I wasn’t his daughter. At least I could lay down on my bed in silence now that he slammed the door shut behind him, alcohol in hand.

I had a father once, but I never had a dad. At three months old, I was taken away from my mom all because my biological father burned me in a scalding hot bath. That’s what the foster home told me at least. The scars on my legs, arms, and torso provided backing to that story, but I didn’t remember it. My foster father was no better than my biological father. I shivered at the thought of him sliding my clothes off and grabbing my breasts. I was only 10. No 10 year old deserves to be molested. I didn’t even understand that was what he was doing and didn’t know that it was wrong of him to do that. I just figured it was normal.

For me, normal was being unloved and mistreated. My adoptive father, if you could even dignify him with that title, constantly beat and choked me. Once in a while, he would let me pass out from the pain and that is when I could feel relief. Since he was gone, I could find relief in my bong. I grabbed the neck of the purple bong and lit some weed up. On my first inhale, I felt the relief start to fill me. My bong was the only thing that would ever love me unconditionally. Too bad I couldn’t enjoy the relief when I became too sleepy from it.

I woke up to the sound of the front door. Great, he was home again. I turned my body away from the door and closed my eye. Fake sleeping only worked when he was incredibly drunk, which he was. The moon light was reflecting off my face and I was glad that high me remembered to hide the bong back under the bed. He stood in my doorway for a second and then continued down the hallway. At least I thought he did.

I waited a couple minutes until I heard nothing but silence and got on my phone. He turned the corner and stared at me. I yelped and jumped up, but there was nowhere to hide. “I have to get one last good beating out of you,” he yelled as he punched me hard in the ribs and the jaw.

I screamed out for help, but knew no one could hear me. If anyone could hear me that would think it was the night life of Los Angeles. “What are you talking about? I live here, remember?” I asked him as he swung at my eye. I was so used to being beaten that I knew how to hold back all my tears and remain totally calm.

“Not for long. I lost you in a bet,” he said nonchalantly. I was nothing to him except a punching bag. He didn’t care if I lived or died only cared that he could use me. The beating I could take, but I couldn’t take being owned by another man who would just use me. Once he was done beating me I was getting out of here. I would be a fugitive, a refugee, and most importantly, an escapee.

He finished beating me and I peered around the corner of my door to make sure that he was in his room with the door closed. I figured he probably blacked out by now. I slid on an off-white duster with fringe hanging off of it, a plain white t-shirt, and some dark blue skinny jeans. I grabbed for a pair of booties and climbed out the window. I had snuck out before, but this time would be for good.

I looked up at the oak tree from the base of it and considered just burning the house down with my adoptive father inside. The highway was about ten miles south of the house, so I started walking that way without glancing back. I wouldn’t miss this place. I wanted to start over. I was tired of being used and abused for doing nothing wrong. Hitchhiking would be scary, but staying with another man was scarier. At least I knew how fucked up my other fathers were, but not knowing was scary.

By sunrise, I made it to the highway. I was tired from the long walk and there were plenty of cars going by. I stopped and stood at the side of the rode with my thumb out, hoping that one of the cars would pick me up. Maybe they would feel sorry for me, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to tell them my story. I would be brand new.

“I can’t believe that you picked me up twenty years ago,” I say to my husband. He has proven to me that not all men just want to use me.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t kill me,” he jokes.

“I’m glad you took care of me,” I tell him. When I got out of L.A. I didn’t have a plan on where I would stay; I just wanted to get out.

“Well, how could I not take care of such a beautiful girl?” he asks me and presses his warm lips up against mine.

“I better put the two rascals to bed,” I say. I couldn’t believe that I found a man to build a family with and I barely remembered what it was to be unloved. I was so full of love that it made it nearly impossible to remember all the hell I went through.