Chapter 1- How much more of this can I take?
The alarm radio began to play "Russian Roulette" by Rhianna waking me up to another dreadful day, making me feel even more awful. I pulled the thin sheet over my head but it did not muffle out the noise as I willed myself back to sleep, but then I rushed off the bed into the bathroom to the cracked mirror in my bathroom and stripped off my worn cotton shorts and black tank top I use for Pjs and stared at a sight to behold.
My black eye had cleared up but the fresher bruises showed all the pain I went through throughout the weekend. Purple bruises were mostly on my chest and stomach where I was kicked mostly by the bastard; just enough that I felt pain but that I did not have any broken bones and he had to explain if the cops got involved. The ones on my arm were now yellow so would not be a problem, but the memory was still there. I moved away from the mirror and went into the shower, turning on the water and putting it on cold, sat down and drew my legs up against my chest rocking to and fro while the tears flowed.
Why did it have to be me? Why are the parents who made me so fucked up? And why did they (especially the drunk bastard) have to beat me up, because he got knocked up on booze that they fired him. They make the perfect pair. The drunk and the whore, who works at Moby's every night part waitress part prostitute. To me the drunk was not me real father, but who could ever be sure, she slept with so many men that any of them could be my real dad. Maybe that is why the drunk hates me. I got out of the shower and quickly dress in my usual black assemble: black skinny jeans, my signature pair of black converse, black blouse to cover up the bruises with my custom made black tank top that said "Goth Princess" in purple ink. I went to my small vanity and applied eyeliner, black eye shadow along with nude makeup. I peeked out the door along the hall of any signs of the drunk and the whore, but everything was silent. I closed the door and went across the room to pick up my book bag and my black leather jacket. Shrugging it on I cautiously went downstairs, prepared to fight my way out if necessary out of this house. Crossing the room towards the door, movement suddenly made me stop. They were in the TV room. I went to the entrance and disgust rose to my throat like bile, bitter and unwanted.
They were unconscious (or sleeping, whatever), the smell of booze hit my nose with hint of something else. Heroin, Crack? No, it could not be, but it was. Marijuana. That was it. I had to get out of this place before they brought me down with them. I ran back to my room to the thing I called a closet. I grabbed the suitcase and flung a few suits of clothes, my makeup and shoes. I found another bag and stuffed my boos in. I went back to the closet and took out my "black box of memories". Picking up the suitcase I slugged the two bags over my shoulder, picked up my box then head out the door.
When I made my way to the door, as I was about to open it, a voice crept up behind me making me cringe. The Whore.
'And where are you going?' she asked.
I turned around to see her with her hands at her hips with an eyebrow arched.
'None of your business,' I spat bac at her.
'You're my useless child, so it is my business,' she countered.
'No I'm not,' I shouted, 'you're the whore and that man there,' I bobbed my head to the TV room,' is the drunk. I'm just his punching bag. Well not anymore.' And I head out the door. A hand grabbed me by the shoulders.
'Please don't leave me with him,' she pleaded, but I shrugged and walked out the door, suddenly feeling free. I turned to look at her. She was crying (why I don't know).
'Goodbye for good,' I said and walked away not caring what would happen to any of them. I walked a few blocks to my black convertible (I had to keep the drunk from trashing it) which I bought from the savings I made from working at GOTH101 which is a hangout for teen Goths. I stashed my things at the doorsteps and rang the doorbell, but took my book bag and threw it in the passebger seat and got in. I put on my black and purple nerd glasses, started the car and pulled out of the driveway waving at Mz. Willz (who allows me to keep my car in her driveway) who stood outside then was pulling my suitcase inside with a knowing look.
As I drove pass the hell hole I lived for the pass almost 18 years, I saw the drunk outside obviously looking for me. As our eyes met his mouth fell in astonishment, then anger and he rushed inside. I floored the gas as I heard a piercing cry erupted behind me.
