Something New

Shattered: Rita's Story

Hittin' stones in glass homes. Ya smokin stones in abandoned homes. Ya hittin stones, and broke ya home. Crack rock, crack rock. Crack rock, crack rock.- Frank Ocean

"Rita?" I heard my mother yell from the front door. I ignored her, in hopes that she would just give up looking for me. She had been calling my name since she walked in the house two minutes ago. I could hear her stilettos click-clacking against the hardwood floor as she searched the house for me. "RITA!" She yelled again. As I heard her getting closer, I shrank back in the hallway closet; wishing that I could just disappear. I knew it was only a matter of seconds before she would find me. Right as that thought passed, she yanked the closet door open.

"I know your raggedy ass heard me calling you!" She yelled. "Get out the closet!" I was so terrified that I couldn't move. "I said get the fuck out the closet!" She yelled, grabbing a hold of my hair and pulling me out the closet. I began to scream as I felt strands of hair being ripped from my scalp. As horrible as this is, it's not the first time it happened. This happened almost every other night since my father left; that was almost two years ago. At only 15, there wasn't much I could do but endure it. It wasn't always like this, though. Before my mother started doing drugs, we were a happy family; that was before my father left. In the beginning, when she first started doing drugs, everything seemed to be the same. My father had no idea she was a coke fein until she almost ran through all of their savings. When he found out, he immediately had her admitted into a 90-day rehab facility. During that time, he moved me in with my grandmother and left.

            When those 90-days were up, my mother was immediately greeted with divorce papers. That was the day it all started. At first it was just verbal abuse; that lasted almost 4 months. Then, suddenly, my grandmother died; leaving my mother even more heart broken. That's when the physical abuse began. Since then, it had basically become a daily routine. Some days aren't as bad as others, though; some days she would just leave me be. Those were the days that she was busy stripping or getting high all day. Those days were rare, though. Though she stripped six days out of the week, she could only chase a high on four of those days; the days where she actually had money. My mother was one of those semi-functioning addicts. She stayed in nice clothes with her hair and nails done. Just looking at her, you would never know that she was an addict. Of course those luxuries ate up most of the money she made each night. This left her scraping up change and bills in order to get high. Me, on the other hand, she didn't give a damn about. She made sure that she had whatever she needed. When it came to me, I had to steal whatever I needed. Because I hated stealing, I usually just went without.

By the time I was done going down memory lane, my mother had just finished beating me and was walking upstairs. I did this a lot- allowed my mind to drift. This helped to ward of some of the pain that she inflicted. When I heard her bedroom door close, I got up so that I could see the damage that she had done. Because I still had to go to school, she would never touch my face. I flipped on the light switch in the bathroom and lifted up my shirt. I could see welts and bruises forming on my lower abdomen and chest. I looked up to see my hair disheveled. I was disgusted by what I saw. As much as I wanted to hate my mother, I couldn't. The person I really hated was my father; he left me to have to deal with this. He could've easily taken me with him, but he didn't. Selfish ass bastard. I hit the switch and went upstairs; making sure to be as quiet as possible because it wasn't unusual for my mother to come back for round two. After closing my door, I headed into my adjoining bathroom so that I could comb my hair. To my surprise, she hadn't managed to pull out much of my hair; which I was so thankful for. The last thing I wanted to do was go to school with patches in my head. Even though my hair was long and thick, it wasn't always easy for me to hide the areas where my hair was missing. After wrapping my hair, I showered and then got into bed with my usual hopes that things would soon change.