Sorrow Swallows My Screams
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty One:
Zacky’s POV:
When I woke up, it was dark. I was still lying in the street. It was freezing. I was shivering like mad. I could feel my head throbbing crazily. It felt like my brain was trying to escape from my head. I figured I ought to try and stand though, despite my incredibly painful throbbing head, because it must be pretty late and this wasn’t the best part of town…
I attempted standing, but helplessly fell straight back down. My legs seemed to have forgotten how to hold my weight. I backed myself up against that trusty wall again. I tried to slide my back up it, using it to support some of my weight to assist my legs. It kind of worked. My legs hurt - both of them at that - but at least I’d managed to get upright, though I was getting a little - a lot - oh help from the wall.
Well, I was upright, that was the main thing. Trying desperately to block out the blinding pain in my legs, I leeched myself slowly, slowly, away from the wall. I was standing on my own. Yippee.
Now was the time when I began my perilous journey home. Ew… home. A shiver travelled noticeably up my spinel - it was no coincidence.
Anyway… I walked.
One treacherous hour later, I arrived at my front gate. As I unlatched it and swung it open, it dragged on the strong concrete that had begun to crack with the hundred zillion times the small gate had opened. The gate groaned unhappily once again as I shut. I didn’t bother to latch it up; it’d probably be better like that for me later when I had to make a run for my life.
I timidly opened the front door - slowly… very slowly. It creaked slightly, the old hinges complaining. I flinched backwards automatically, expecting my father’s fist to hit my already beaten face… but no. Instead, I saw a different being.
It was a woman. Blonde hair hung loosely from her head, grey at the roots, in need of a re-dye. She wore a baggy yellow v-neck shirt and a red knee length skirt. Her cheek were half wrinkled with age and plump; she was chubby. It was my mother.
“Mum?” I asked, forcing my mouth to stay shut and my jaw from dropping to the level of my shoes.
“Hey, Zachary,” she said softly. Her voice was croaky from cigarettes and alcohol. I don’t know… probably drugs, too. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night. I wanted to see you, I really did. I missed you, baby,” she continued.
“No… no, you didn’t,” I said quietly. Loudening my voice, I said, “I’m sick of you. I’m sick of you and you’re shit. You didn’t miss me. You wouldn’t miss me if I was dead.”
“That’s not true, honey. You know that. I love you.”
“No you don’t,” I said, growing annoyed. She attempted to reach out and hug me, but I cringed away, my face wrinkling up. “Don’t touch me,” I hissed. She hadn’t even mentioned my injuries yet. I knew they were obvious.
“I just want you to love me, Zachary. You’re my son,” she spoke, tears welling up in her power blue eyes and falling.
“I’m not you’re son. You’re not my family. I don’t belong here,” I said, venom in my voice.
“Oh yes, you do.” The voice was loud, dominant. I didn’t have to think twice to know who it belonged to: my father.
Alas, my father emerged from the doorway about ten metres away. “You might want to rethink that one, son.” He spoke evenly, calmly, though I could sense the hidden menace. “Someone got to ya, did they?” he asked casually, referring to my blood, bruises, and bashings.
I nodded boldly. I wasn’t going to let him see my fear this time he bashed me. He took slow, threatening steps toward me. I tried not to focus on how much pain I would be in after this major bashing.
One slap across the cheek… that was it. It left a stinging sensation on my face which throbbed against my forming bruises.
One slap… that was it. He traipsed away back to the lounge room… back to football and alcohol. I darted quickly up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I dashed into my room and slammed the door shut. It shook fearfully in it’s frame before settling down and being a good door.
I sulked over to my bed and threw open the covers. Fuck them. I’m just going to sleep. Maybe when I wake up my body will throb less. Maybe I’ll be in less physical pain. I know I won’t be in any less emotional pain.
The light was off; it was dark in here. The covers pulled tightly up to my chin, I closed my eyes. The pure darkness was blissful; I hoped for it to eradicate my knowledge of my history.
Every fibre of my being in pain, I soon fell asleep.
Zacky’s POV:
When I woke up, it was dark. I was still lying in the street. It was freezing. I was shivering like mad. I could feel my head throbbing crazily. It felt like my brain was trying to escape from my head. I figured I ought to try and stand though, despite my incredibly painful throbbing head, because it must be pretty late and this wasn’t the best part of town…
I attempted standing, but helplessly fell straight back down. My legs seemed to have forgotten how to hold my weight. I backed myself up against that trusty wall again. I tried to slide my back up it, using it to support some of my weight to assist my legs. It kind of worked. My legs hurt - both of them at that - but at least I’d managed to get upright, though I was getting a little - a lot - oh help from the wall.
Well, I was upright, that was the main thing. Trying desperately to block out the blinding pain in my legs, I leeched myself slowly, slowly, away from the wall. I was standing on my own. Yippee.
Now was the time when I began my perilous journey home. Ew… home. A shiver travelled noticeably up my spinel - it was no coincidence.
Anyway… I walked.
One treacherous hour later, I arrived at my front gate. As I unlatched it and swung it open, it dragged on the strong concrete that had begun to crack with the hundred zillion times the small gate had opened. The gate groaned unhappily once again as I shut. I didn’t bother to latch it up; it’d probably be better like that for me later when I had to make a run for my life.
I timidly opened the front door - slowly… very slowly. It creaked slightly, the old hinges complaining. I flinched backwards automatically, expecting my father’s fist to hit my already beaten face… but no. Instead, I saw a different being.
It was a woman. Blonde hair hung loosely from her head, grey at the roots, in need of a re-dye. She wore a baggy yellow v-neck shirt and a red knee length skirt. Her cheek were half wrinkled with age and plump; she was chubby. It was my mother.
“Mum?” I asked, forcing my mouth to stay shut and my jaw from dropping to the level of my shoes.
“Hey, Zachary,” she said softly. Her voice was croaky from cigarettes and alcohol. I don’t know… probably drugs, too. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night. I wanted to see you, I really did. I missed you, baby,” she continued.
“No… no, you didn’t,” I said quietly. Loudening my voice, I said, “I’m sick of you. I’m sick of you and you’re shit. You didn’t miss me. You wouldn’t miss me if I was dead.”
“That’s not true, honey. You know that. I love you.”
“No you don’t,” I said, growing annoyed. She attempted to reach out and hug me, but I cringed away, my face wrinkling up. “Don’t touch me,” I hissed. She hadn’t even mentioned my injuries yet. I knew they were obvious.
“I just want you to love me, Zachary. You’re my son,” she spoke, tears welling up in her power blue eyes and falling.
“I’m not you’re son. You’re not my family. I don’t belong here,” I said, venom in my voice.
“Oh yes, you do.” The voice was loud, dominant. I didn’t have to think twice to know who it belonged to: my father.
Alas, my father emerged from the doorway about ten metres away. “You might want to rethink that one, son.” He spoke evenly, calmly, though I could sense the hidden menace. “Someone got to ya, did they?” he asked casually, referring to my blood, bruises, and bashings.
I nodded boldly. I wasn’t going to let him see my fear this time he bashed me. He took slow, threatening steps toward me. I tried not to focus on how much pain I would be in after this major bashing.
One slap across the cheek… that was it. It left a stinging sensation on my face which throbbed against my forming bruises.
One slap… that was it. He traipsed away back to the lounge room… back to football and alcohol. I darted quickly up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I dashed into my room and slammed the door shut. It shook fearfully in it’s frame before settling down and being a good door.
I sulked over to my bed and threw open the covers. Fuck them. I’m just going to sleep. Maybe when I wake up my body will throb less. Maybe I’ll be in less physical pain. I know I won’t be in any less emotional pain.
The light was off; it was dark in here. The covers pulled tightly up to my chin, I closed my eyes. The pure darkness was blissful; I hoped for it to eradicate my knowledge of my history.
Every fibre of my being in pain, I soon fell asleep.