Cold Bitch

Stairway to Hell - Led Leppelin?

His mother stands in the hall, screaming at him through the doorway. It's the same as it was last week. Actually, this has happened a couple of times now, Chris has refused to go to church with his parents, and they've lost their temper over it. Ever since Chris can remember, his parents have been extremely religious, going to church every Sunday, saying a prayer before dinner and bed, and they don't believe in medication. He has never taken Aspirin in his whole fifteen years of life. He has never believed in God either. He has played with the idea of something else existing out there though, maybe there was some kind of "God", but if there were, it wouldn't be one that forbids everything joyful and pleasurable, and it wouldn't be one who casts shame onto those who did it anyways.

"You will come with us and there will be no discussion!" Sarah averts her gaze from the angry young teenager currently sitting on the bed, to the bedsheets, finding them rumpled up and wrinkled like a paper. The floor is littered with his, once nice, shirts and socks, now all torn and covered in mud and whatever else filth that a teenage boy manages to collect through the day. Unfinished homework is scattered around on his desk and the dust is layered with such a density, you can see it floating around in the air. She looks to the wall over his bed, even the cross that she hung there in hopes to salvage some of her son's damned soul is crooked and dusty. "You need to get out of this awful room, it stinks in here."

Chris shoots his mother a dirty look, turning around and making the bed even more messy, crawling half under the filthy covers and turning away from the doorway and away from his mother standing in it with crossed arms. "Go to hell" He mutters, fluffs the pillow under his head and closes his eyes, preparing to sleep. Sarah gasps and puts her hands on her hips furiously. "This is a God loving household, you will not speak of such things, not under my roof." She says, poisonous and calm. Chris knows that tone.

"Richard!!" His mothers shrieking voice fills the hallway, forcing his heart rate to instantly spike. His comfortable bed seems to be made out of rock and he suddenly feels like Isaac laying on the stoneplate, waiting for Abraham to sacrifice him. The only place in the house that feels like home, feels cold and unsafe as he hears his fathers working shoes marching towards his room. He shoots up from the bed as if it was on fire and sprints the few steps it takes him to reach the door in panic. With his mother still standing in it, he pushes it and forces the door closed, pressing all of his weight against it and holding the handle up as hard as he can. I should've joined the football team, he comically thinks to himself as he's wondering how long he'll be able to hold the door back. If he were religious, he would be praying now.

When the footsteps have come to an end outside of his door, he hears his mothers muffled words. "He told me to go to hell and then he slammed the door right in my face." She cries to her husband. Chris knows she really shouldn't be the one crying right now, he's the one forced to use his door as a shield from his own father out of fear for the indisputable consequences of his harmless actions. Can't you go to church instead already and pray your stupid troubles away, he thinks as he's preparing for the onslaught of force about to be delivered from the other side of the door. "Chris, open this goddamn door at this instant, you lousy fuck!" Richard screams, his voice sounding satanistically evil and infuriated.

He feels the door shaking with the force put on it from the other side, his sweaty palms steadily losing grip of the door handle and his dad pushing down on it. The metal piece is already starting to budge, and with one final push, the door flies open from the pressure of his fathers strong hands forcing it open. Chris is thrown to the side and ends up on the floor beside it, his back sadly hitting the wall with impact. Sitting on the floor, trying to recover from the blow, he looks up and is met by his fathers frowning face. Richard's brows are drawn together to form one, thick line, almost covering the narrow eyes staring down at Chris under them, his jaw is tense, making the muscles in it visible and his whole face is red with passionate anger. "You win, Chris. You'll not be going to church today!"

The dim light and damp smell of the basement instantly penetrate Chris' senses. The isolated feeling of being locked in the windowless cellar as the hunger is eating away at you, while you know that others your age are out having fun with their friends, worrying about girls and money for cigarettes is already depressing him to the core. His heart sinks when the man in front of him comes closer with heavy feet and reaches for him, grabbing both of his arms harshly and pulling him up roughly. They both know where they're headed.

Pulling him up to his feet, Chris' father lets go of his left arm and drags him through the house in the other with a grip so strong it'll undoubtedly leave ugly bruises. As Chris is stumbling after his father, he can hear his mother still sobbing and see his little sister innocently peeking at him from the other end of the hallway, already in her jacket and ready to leave for the holy house of Jesus Christ. Chris thinks it's unfair, the only reason she never gets any shit is because of how easily brainwashed she is, he thinks, almost tripping over his own feet trying to get a better look at Rose.

Reaching the basement door, Richard turns his son around, looks him in the eyes seriously. "Still don't want to go with us?" He asks with a sarcastic sneer. The corners of Chris' mouth turns upward into a bright and polite smile, mismatching his vexed eyes. "No, I'm good daddy-o!" He forces out through gritted teeth. His dad looks annoyed at that and abruptly pushes him down the steps of the dark basement. Chris loses his footing but luckily only stumbles down a few steps before he manages to grab onto the railing, just in time to hear the door close and the key turn in the lock, the little light in the room disappearing with his chances to get out.

Blindly searching for the lightswitch in the pitch black room, he tries not to fall down the stairway he'd been pushed down. With every step he holds onto the railing firmly and feels for the wooden planks carefully. In the beginning it could take him up to ten minutes just trying to locate the switch, but with his trained hand he finds it almost instantly now, skillfully dragging his hand over the wall. When the light is finally switched on, he takes a look around the dull cellar, breaths in the distasteful sight of it and sighs, knowing this will be the place he'll be sleeping tonight.