THIS IS YOUR TRIGGER WARNING! this chapter deals with themes of domestic abuse so if that makes you uncomfortable or upset in any way, please feel free to come back next chapter :)
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
'MY PAST.'
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THE NIGHT FINISHED AS QUICKLY AS IT CAME.
Jack and I had decided to leave early anyway — we both agreed we weren't waiting in absolute agony to find out the King and Queen of homecoming.
We relocated to what we now called 'our spot', the bridge that was raised above the highway, and we were swigging some beer. "Your dad is a really nice guy." Jack mentioned, holding his beer bottle up to his parted lips, making his voice echo slightly inside the bottle.
"He is, he's the only one I have." I sighed, taking in the view of the moving cars below, the lights zoomed by with a flash and the vehicles left a breeze as they passed.
"I hate to be nosey but..." the brunette paused for a minute and raised a brow, looking as if he was trying to think of the next words to say, "Your mom? What happened to her?"
I sighed and stayed silent, beginning to get lost in my own thoughts. Jack's question had made we wonder, what had happened to her? After all it had been at least nearly ten years since I saw her — since the incident. I wondered whether to open up to him or not, since only my father and I knew about what happened that night. "It's a long story... but I can tell you if you have the patience?" I raised a brow. The boy nodded in response and gave a small smile, encouraging me to tell him about my past. I parted my lips, wondering where to start.
From the beginning.
I'd never really seen much of my father since he and my mother had come to the mutual decision to stay apart and my mum had convinced me to live with her. I resented my dad, my mom described in detail how much of a horrible man he was and how he mistreated me - his only child - and refused to put a roof over our heads despite the abundance of money he owned. That's what she fed to me, the delusion that he was a monster ever since I was four years old, and being young and wanting my mother's approval and attention, I believed her.
I had never been a huge fan of going to school, and I had been so independent on my mother that I hated being away from her. In turn, she often yelled at me and insulted me, words such as 'brat', 'evil', 'bitch.' Yet nothing had prepared me for the day I came home from school and the door was locked, I was unable to get in and no matter how many times I cried for my mother, she never came.
After hours of sitting on my school bag, leaning against the front door and the sky growing dark and the air becoming cold and crisp, the front door swung open and I almost fell inside. I felt a hand tightly grip my arm and pull me inside, the warm air immediately hitting my face. I looked up to see my mother, and she looked furious, and began chattering about how my grades at school were falling dramatically and how she couldn't be more disappointed in me. I was used to her disciplining me with telling me how much of a let down I was, but she had never locked me outside before but yet I was still tempted to test my luck.
"I hate you." I spat, my eight year old self not knowing the severity of what I'd just said and how it would not end well for me at all. However, after hearing my mother's gasp I was filled with regret. She grabbed the side of my head with her hand, which was almost the same size as my head, and slammed it against the wall — which she had previously been pairing so it was still tacky and I ended up with large specs of white paint stuck to my face and lodged in my hair. I tried to pull my head back as my the pain ricocheted through my skull, which I learned again wasn't a good idea. Furiously, she raised her hand and I closed my eyes for the impact of her hand slapping against my raw, cold skin.
I didn't remember what else happened after that moment, just that I was in pain and felt as if I was emotionally numb — my mother had never hit me before, not like that so I took myself off to bed. I was probably asleep for around an hour or two before I heard my name being whisper-yelled by a male voice. I rubbed my eyes and my vision became more vivid. My father was in front of me. "Get your stuff, honey." he pointed his finger towards fairly large suitcase that lay at the edge of my bed, which has clearly been previously packed. He quietly ushered me out of bed, keeping a finger across his lips, signalling for me to be as quiet as possible. He held my hand and had the suitcase in the other and I clutched my stuffed bunny, which was brown and was tattered, whom I'd simply named 'Bunny'.
My dad quickly lifted me into his arms and wrapped and arm around me, holding me tight to his chest and lifting the suitcase. I felt my body shake as he stumbled down the stairs, which was followed by the sound of my mother's bedroom door flying open and her yelling due to the commotion. I glanced behind me and my mother was stood on the top of the stairs, she began yelling my father and I's names.
When we reached the end of the stairs, my father set me down and ushered me to follow him. It was all happening so fast and I wasn't sure what to do, so I just stood in the hallway, listening to the frantic noise of my mother's footsteps as she scurried down the stairs. "SADIE!" my father yelled, pulling me backwards by the back of my night shirt. The last time I saw my mother, I witnessed the shocked looked on her face as she made it to the bottom of the stairs, just as the front door slammed shut.
"I promised you I'd give you a better life." My dad panted, shoving the car keys into the ignition after plugging my seat belt in for me as I was in the passenger seat beside him. He violently pressed his foot on the pedal and off we set to New York.
"Wow..." Jack replied, his voice was laced with sadness and disbelief. "That's honestly crazy... I'm sorry that happened to you."
"Don't be sorry..." I sighed. "I'm just glad you're somebody I can open up too." I took another swig of my beer before explaining how nobody knew the events of what happened that night apart from my family, and my mom hadn't even bothered to try contact the police — maybe she didn't care or maybe she'd have to admit to the abuse she'd inflicted upon me. Either way, I was incredibly grateful for my father and how he saved me that night, who knows what would've happened if I stayed under that woman's care.
I leant my head against Jack's shoulder, he was the best thing to happen to me.
