Sorrow Swallows My Screams

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven:

Zacky’s POV:

I need more clothes.

This is what I thought a few hours later when I’d awoken from a nap on Brian’s couch. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. We were watching TV and I just dozed off. I’d been wearing these clothes for a while now, and, with an inconspicuous sniff of my underarms, I realized that I also needed a shower.

Basically, I need to go home. It has to happen sometime. It’s inevitable, even though I hate it so.

When I told Brian this, he wanted to come with me. I told him no. Although he didn’t admit it, I knew he was afraid that I’d try and kill myself again while at home. And, honestly, who wants that on their conscious for the rest of their life?

I’d be fine.

At least, that’s what I told myself on the outer level of my consciousness. Down below… that was where it got nasty.

I set out by foot. I didn’t expect another visit from Gerard. And it didn’t happen, so that was good. He hurt.

I froze when I arrived in front of my house. I took a moment, gazing up at the white of the walls, trimmed with a dark shade of blue: navy blue. I traced the edges of the windows with my eyes, examining the white curtains that were complimented by the navy windowsills. My eyes paused at my bedroom, where I let out an inaudible laugh. It was the only room in the house that did not match, with the black curtains and all. The window was open, indicating that I’d forgotten to close it last time I had climbed out. The curtains fluttered restlessly in the cool breeze.

My thoughts were interrupted by a man’s frantic voice. I looked to see where it was coming from, though it was pointless. I knew the voice. It belonged to my father.

“Zachary, you mother fucking son of a bitch! Get your worthless ass in here right now or I swear to God I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

Don’t I just have the sweetest father?

I considered running away, but brushed the thought off almost immediately. He would kill me if I ever returned. I’d just have to obey him… I guess.

I walked solemnly to the porch of the house and was greeted by not a hug from my father, but a punch in the face.

“Go to your room and stay there, you worthless piece of shit.”

I could smell the alcohol on his breath stronger than you can smell an old lady’s perfume; so much of it that you’d consider the thought seriously that she’d spent an hour just spraying it on, spraying it on.

I walked up to my room, all the same, and grabbed a bag, the biggest one I could find. I found a big suitcase, even better. I packed away all my clothes and belongings. This way I’d never have to return home if I didn’t want to. That didn’t necessarily mean that I’d live with Brian… just away. I don’t know, I could end up coming back. Who knows? But it’s better to be on the safe side.

I knew I couldn’t go downstairs and out of the house. If my father found me, which he would, I would be the victim of a drunken beating, or worse… murder. Could happen. Unlikely though. Mum would leave him - even she couldn’t stand that much - and he’d have no money for alcohol or any of the other shit he buys.

So… it was the window. I threw my suitcase out. It landed with a thump on the ground, sending tiny bits of dust erupting up from the ground, or so I imagined. I couldn’t see it in that much detail.

I grabbed my guitar next, my precious guitar, the last important object left in my room. No way I was leaving her behind. I had my guitar and half my body out the window when the door to my bedroom opened, hitting the wall with a thunderous roar that made the plaster crack.

My father. Grr.

I went faster. He reached the window and grabbed my leg. He wouldn’t let go. He was a lot stronger than me in his furious rage, but I knew that if I didn’t escape I’d be beaten to a bloody pulp. I struggled and squirmed, desperately trying to escape his muscular grip. I couldn’t hold on much longer, but searched inside myself for one last attempt. I lurched forward with all the strength left in me.

It worked! Not how I had planned, exactly. I landed in the tree, like planned. But the part I didn’t plan on involved my father falling out the window and onto the ground, landing with a louder thump than my suitcase, even.

I watched for a few moments. He was unconscious, but still alive. I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. He’d landed on his side, arm first by the looks of it. I squinted my eyes, trying to get a better look at the arm. It looked like it was sticking out at a funny angle. Maybe it was broken. I couldn’t be sure.

I climbed down the tree anyway, before he woke up. I grabbed the suitcase, trying to acquire a semi-comfortable position for carrying my suitcase and guitar. I found one that would do, and continued on. With a glance over my shoulder I saw that my father’s arm was sitting at an irregular angle. Broken.

Oh shit. If I ever come back, I was dead meat. But that didn’t have to happen.

I was free… right?