Our indelible pasts|✔

seventy four - hazel's indelible past

When the final bell of the day rings, I sigh, taking my time to get out of class while everyone else is rushing to get away from school.

My mind doesn't get on with what used to be its daily routine of contemplating the same scenarios two months ago; Will she be drunk? Will she be awake? Will she be at home? Will she lash at me? Will I wake up tomorrow with new marks to my skin?

I don't do that anymore, it's exhausting. All I know in my head between the moments the last bell goes and before I enter the house is that whatever I'm walking into, is bad. I'm just used to that at this point.

When I enter the bus, I go all the way to the back and pull out a novel from my bag and start reading it, in need of a healthy distraction.

I'm unable to read though, my vision blurry and my hands shaking uncontrollably. I can feel my heartbeat getting faster, I can feel it through every part of me. I feel it in my head, my stomach, my legs, my fingers, everywhere. It's almost like I can feel my fear sucking the blood out of my veins as they dry up and I start to turn blue that I jump when the person next to me taps my shoulder.

Realising that I just experienced the tip of my very frequent panic attacks in front of someone, I close my eyes, focus on my breathing and when I calm down, I turn to the girl sitting next to me and smile apologetically.

"Sorry, I was just a little nauseated. I get car sick sometimes and I was reading, not a good combo." I lie, giving the girl a reassuring look.

"It's okay. Why don't you just keep the book away and open the window?" She says clearly weirded out by what she just saw.

I smile, nod, open the window and try to focus on the movement of the wind, and how good it feels when it hits my face.

"Better?" She asks from besides me and I nod, still staring out the window.

When the bus stops at the bus stop nearest to my home, I get up from my seat and walk all the way to the door hoping that my legs won't give up on me as I slowly walk home trying not to think about what's going to happen when I reach there.

When I reach the house, I hold the doorknob for about two minutes before finally turning it and slowly walking in, trying to be extremely quiet, trying not to attract unwanted attention. I slowly shut the door and I'm about to start walking up the stairs to go stay in my room when I hear her voice. And it's directed to me.

"Come here."

I stop in my tracks, my heartbeat getting faster again. I turn towards the direction of the kitchen where she is leaning on the counter, drink in hand, cigar in her mouth, anger on her face.

I start walking to her, slowly, avoiding eye contact, looking at the contents on the table; different types of drugs in different forms; powdered, pills and empty beer bottles, some broken, correction, a lot of broken ones; on the floor, on the counter, on the stove, nearly every inch of the kitchen. I keep on walking toward her, trying not to step on any pieces of glass then I stop a few inches in front her, still avoiding eye contact.

"Look at me." She slurs, her voice thick with anger.

I slowly tilt my head but before I completely do that, she slaps me, right across my face. "I said look at me! Me! My face! My eyes!" She shouts, the cigar falling from her mouth, her nasty breath fanning my face and her spit burning my skin.

I look her straight in the eyes, tears stinging my own.

"Clean up this mess. Now!" She slurs once more before bending to pick up her cigar.

With no hesitation whatsoever, I turn and start collecting the empty bottles on the counter, trying not to get cut.

"Faster!" She shouts then pushes me to the ground.

I scream as I hit the ground, pieces of glass piercing my skin.

"Shut up and hurry up!" She demands, kicking me but nearly falling as well as she's clearly high, and drunk.

With tears rolling down my face and blood seeping from me, I pick up the pace, gaining more scars for my collection.

"Can you stop crying? You caused all this! This is all your fault! All of it!" She shouts again.

When I'm done, I limp to the stairs, ready to go take a shower and wash the blood off, but cry as the water hits my fresh wounds.

As I slowly stagger up the stairs, she shouts again. "It's all your fault! I broke those bottles because of how angry you make me. You should have just died along with your parents!"

Those words feel like a stab to my heart, in fact, multiple stabs. I continue walking up the stairs, emotionally weak, weakened by the harshest words I've ever received in any foster home that just came from my foster mother's mouth, and physically weak, from the scars she gives me every day.