Unspoken, but Loved (H.S)

Chapter 1-The start of it All

Shattering glass. That's the first thing I hear when I woke up on my dusty mattress, laid on the creaky floorboards beneath me. Squinting from the harsh rays of sun beaming through the old window, I looked over to my right, to my old small clock. It read 8:37 A.M. I threw the scratchy blanket off my small, bony body, and slowly stood up. I headed to the small bathroom attached to my hell hole of a room, and proceeded to undress myself and step into the ice cold water that slowly dripped out of the rusty old shower head.

All I had was a hotel sized body wash from months ago that I managed to get out of a dumpster behind an old motel that was running out of business. I used very small pea sized drops of the substance so it would last me until the next time I was in the same situation. A razor I snatched from my father months ago without his knowing, was the only razor I had. I use it for multiple things, some for which I'm not proud of, but it's the only thing that helps me look at least a bit more put together by allowing myself to shave my legs and armpits.

After five minutes, I stepped out, careful to avoid the few old floorboards that creaked loudly, so my parents wouldn't hear I was awake. I grabbed a towel off the small vanity and gently dried my body, trying to avoid the bruises and lacerations that were made less than 24 hours ago. I then got the only pair of old ripped jeans I had,on my petite body. Tossed in the corner of my room, I picked up my AC/DC shirt with multiple rips in it, and slid it on my body.

Finally, after I was dressed, I put my ear up to the old wood door that led to my room, to listen for voices. Once I was sure no one was in the living room area, I quietly opened my door and peaked around the corner. I saw my father passed out on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, almost empty, and a broken wine glass at his feet. This was how most mornings went with my father. He would drink multiple bottles a day and throw punches at me left and right and call me a slut or whore. Last night he threw one of the empty bottles at my torso resulting in a large gash on my stomach. I cleaned it out by pouring a small bit of one of the beers that he'd left the other day outside of my room door, so it wouldn't get infected. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was better than my parents wasting money on me at the ER and getting even more abuse afterwards.

Out the window, I didn't see my mothers car in the driveway so I began silently walking through the orange colored leaves on the pavement.

She worked at a gas station earning minimum wage just to keep food on the table for the two of them, and me left with the scraps they didn't eat. She couldn't care any less for me, claiming I was a mistake, and should've never been born. Once she mentioned she tried having an abortion but it failed. Clearly.

Once outside, I breathed a sigh of relief. Knowing I had to be back home soon, I began my way to the nearest liquor store, whose owner I knew all too well. After about 10 minutes of walking, well, limping, I saw the blue and red colored neon sign for the store.

Reaching the glass doors, I stepped inside the little building with a small breeze of cool air and was greeted with a small smile from the owner, named George.

"How you doin Ophelia? You taken care al'right?" questioned the small frail old man.

I looked back at him with a sad excuse of a small smile and shrugged, then proceeded to limp my way to the back of the store where all the alcohol was stored.

Once I made my way back there, I saw the rows of bottles of alcohol lining the walls. Different brands and types of bottles littered the shelves, each one claiming to be the best tasting drink. I reached my shaky hands up to the one my father is always drinking, grabbing two of them, and making my way back to the front to George.

"That all little lady?" George asked sadly, knowing the circumstances.

George found out about the conditions I was living in by seeing the fresh cuts and bruises that littered my body daily. He questioned me but of course got no more than a small gesture. He quickly learned that I didn't speak, or that I was mute. I was thankful he never questioned why I was, he just accepted me for who I was. I was skeptical at first that he would call the police or CPS services but he realized that if he did, I would go in the foster care system and possibly be far away, not by him. He was like a father or parental figure to me in the sense of giving me a small bit of relief that I was relatively safe in his presence.

I nodded my head, still not ever meeting his eyes, and slipped him a $20 bill. He put the two bottles in a brown paper bag and pushed them towards me on the counter. I reached up and grabbed them, giving him a curt nod and turned my back walking out.

After making my way through the doors, I went to the sidewalk towards my house. While looking down at the ground walking, I felt a hard object crash into me, making one of the two bottles fall, crashing to the ground. In a scramble, I hurried down to my knees trying to pick up the small pieces of glass, in hopes the stranger would just leave me alone and not make a fuss over this.

"Shit! I'm so sorry m'am, I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking. Be careful love, don't want to hurt yourself," a unfamiliar voice beside me voiced aloud concerned. A strong tattooed hand reached for my own trying to help me so I wouldn't get hurt. I immediately flinched away and stood quickly back up and backed away from the man. Tears slowly started to cascade down my cheeks knowing I wouldn't have enough money to buy another bottle to make up for the one that fell. I would have to pay the consequences.

"Come on, love, let me go get you another to make up for it," the man said quickly.

"And, by the way, my name is Harry. What's yours, love?" the man whose name I now know, Harry, asked with his beading concerned eyes down on me.

I shook my head and proceeded to pass him to go back into the little store. I heard footsteps catching up to me, and I looked to my side to see his feet next to mine.

"I'm really sorry again," Harry mentioned feeling guilty for making the un-named woman fall and drop her drinks.

I shrugged my shoulders and reached up pulling the doors open and made my way back to retrieve another bottle. Once in my hand, I went to the register with Harry trailing behind me. Harry reached in his pocket and pulled out a card to pay for the bottle of whiskey. George looked confused but none the less, stayed silent and proceeded to check us out. I looked up at George and he was looking at Harry with a concerned facial expression.

"Young man, what happened if you don't mind me asking son?" the little old man asked out loud. Harry opened his mouth and began to answer.

"I bumped into her on accident and I wanted to get another bottle for her since it broke," Harry replied back solemnly. In the moment of silence between when George could reply to Harry, I reached out for the new bottle and turned around to head back home. On the way out, I heard Harry ask, "She never told me her name," Just before my hand reaches the metal on the door, I heard George say, "Ophelia, Her name is Ophelia."