If I had a pound for every time my History teacher said the word ‘like’ I would have enough money to move away to Spain and spend the rest of my life sun bathing on a beach in a bikini drinking cocktails, reading books and doing pointless crosswords until the end of time. Or even better, find someone who makes massive steal boxes to lock away fat Scottish people to stick my history teacher in so I won’t have to ever bloody see him again.
The bell rings, signaling the end of a school day and the pain in the pit of my stomach hits me like a ram hits a fence. Every night I go through the same routine in my head – I don’t have to go home. I could run. Run as far away as possible. Away from all of it, I don’t have to get hurt anymore. Every one of my instincts pulls me in the opposite direction as strong as the gravity that keeps me anchored to the floor but I try to ignore it. It gets harder every day.
I fumble the key into the lock and walk in through my house. My house always reflects the family living inside. It’s dark, old, and doesn’t fit in with the rest of the street. Every house down our road has beautiful gardens with pretty flowers and flashy cars and clean driveways and our neighbor won some kind of award for his prized tulips. Whereas our house is dark and mum broke our window last month and dad had to boarder it up with an old wine crate from Tesco.
Shutting the door behind me, the familiar smell of beer and febreeze fills my lungs and I can’t help but smile bleakly at the subtle reminder of home. No matter what anyone says this is still home to me. I swing my bag off my left shoulder and it narrowly misses my left foot as it hits the floor. My father is sitting at the dining room table, head down like he’s thinking hard, beer bottle in hand.
My father has always been a quiet man. He seldom speaks however I do not question his affection. Every day when I walk through the door he offers up a smile and a small wave to me before his head drops back down to the table. Don’t think badly of him please, he means all the best; we’re just going through tough times right now.
I smile to acknowledge him and walk into the kitchen. A single light bulb swings from the middle of the ceiling, dangling on just three bare wires. I stand to admire it which seems like a pretty silly thing to do, admire a light bulb but the thing is this light bulb always shines. It won’t turn off; dad thinks there's a glitch in the system somewhere and it’s been there as long as I can remember. The same light bulb. Dad says he replaced the old light bulb when my sister was born about 13 years ago and it’s been shining since. Mum says that he’s being silly, light bulbs don’t last that long.
I make myself and my Dad a simple dinner of cheese on toast before mum gets home and place the plate in front of my father. He smiles a thank you and I sit opposite him. We both eat our meal in silence as I look for him – hoping he will say something, something that will make this better for the both of us. But like I said, he seldom speaks.
I finish my dinner and take our plates out and wash them within an inch of their life. And a key rattles in the door way, undoubtedly the sound of someone coming home.
I panic – and my father raises his head sharp, like a cobras. She walks through the door and throws a bag on top of my own and glares at us both. Anger glints in Her misty blue eyes and She concentrates her death-like stare onto me. She lunges towards me and a sharp back hand leaves me breathless. She says it’s my fault She’s like this. She always blamed me and my sister for everything. I drag myself off the floor only to meet another angry glare, teeth bare.
Slap. Red mark.
She grabs me by the hair and punches me. I double over, clenching my stomach, and Ahe pulls harder on my hair. I struggle for my breath. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. Silence. I shoot my father a fragile look but his head is in his hands, fingers in his ears. He must remember all this… He knows what could happen. She kicks me behind my knees and takes me out, ripping fistfuls of hair from my hair and I scream: scream in agony. She kicks me hard in the stomach and my back arches and I let out a terrifying moan: A violent cross between a gasp and a scream. My close my eyes hard and try to imagine a happy place, a time when this will simply be over. I envisage a warm beach, my father, my sister, my mother, me… all hand in hand as the sun sets beneath the oceans cool waves and finally peace is restored. A crushing blow tears apart the dream leaving me on my back, helpless and completely and utterly open.
Her leg raised high and I simply lie there, my emotions cut short.
“NOOOO” My father screams, runs towards Her with his arms wide open. Her facial expression turns from one of pure shock and horror, to one of vengeance and my father takes her down.
Seconds, which feel like hours pass and she rises. She looks at my father is shock, one I have only seen once before – horror. She stutters and stammers, and drops something to the floor. She picks up her bag and She slams the door behind her.
I crawl over to my father and hold his face in my hands. His mouth slightly open and his eyes closed and I shake his head – harder and harder and I start to cry. He’d stopped her from hurting me. He ran from his chair… he moved. The video replaying itself in my head, stuck on repeat. I keep seeing Her face turn from innocence to pure evil, as if she was ready. As if she knew this would happen. I feel black and blue, cut and bruised and my weary eyes travel along his body. Near where She was standing, lay blood… lay a knife. Seconds pass before it finally sinks in.
She had killed my father. My mother had killed my dad. The same person who had murdered my sister.
The light bulb flickers, and burns itself out. And leaves me in total darkness with my dead fathers face in my hands.
