More Than a Teacher - Ashton Irwin

67

TW* violence, abuse, death, heavy scenes

Ashton

"Where are you, you little shit?"

My heart skipped a beat as I crouched down in the darkness of my wardrobe. I hushed the fussy toddler sitting on my shoes to my right. She hasn't eaten all day so I don't blame her.

She agitatedly bounces up and down, grabbing at my arm as I try desperately to keep her whines quiet. They'd hurt her if they knew she was hiding here with me.

"No fucking games in this house Ashton!" His chilling voice booms down the hallway.

He's getting closer, his heavy footsteps colliding with the floorboards makes my worry skyrocket.
I don't think ten year old are supposed to know what this worry feels like.

"Ash..." The nearly four year old cries to me and my heart sinks.

She's too young to understand what's going on, why she's not being fed or why we're sitting in my wardrobe in the first place.

Her small squeak was the last straw, the terrifying man I call my father stomps into my bedroom and throws open the sliding wardrobe door. The light streams into the confined space where my sister and I sat curled up. He towers over us, his jaw clenched like always. His dark brown curls hang over his forehead as his thick muscular arms tense.

He goes to the gym and it makes him a lot stronger. He's constantly trying to get me to go with him but I'd rather stay in my room and play with my toys.

Someone in my class said their dad was like
Superman, another one said his dad fights fires, someone else's dad reads them stories before bed. My dad, though, is like a villain from a scary cartoon. Like Joker from Batman but without the face paint and twice his size.

His hand strikes out like a snake catching prey, his rough fingers curling around my already bruised wrist.

He hurls me out of the cupboard, yanking my body remorselessly to my feet as little Skye still sits behind me.

"What did I say about hiding? You stand in front of me and take it like a man." He growls, shoving me forcefully against the wall.

I stumble back, losing my balance as my spine crashes into it. A pained wince passes my lips as I slide down the wall to curl up on the floor with my knees bent up to my chest.

"What did I tell you about playing with those fucking plastic dolls?" His finger darts down at me with his arm stretched out.

The area in the crease of his arm is tainted with bruises ranging from shades of blue to yellow. The backs of his knees and hands looked the same. I've seen him put needles in those areas, same with my mum.

Dad doesn't like when I play with Skye's barbie dolls. He said that if he knew I was going to grow up to play with barbies he would have made my mother get something called an abortion. I don't really know what that is or what it has to do with me.

"You aren't to touch them ever again! You hear me?" He shouts and my heart thumps in fear.

I don't understand why my parents are so mean.