Bring Me Along

Chapter 1: Resilience

Bags are packed. Well a backpack that holds few articles of clothing, a bar of soap, a hair brush, train ticket, and some dry foods. I went lurking around the house, careful not to wake the beast sleeping in the recliner chair. I was sure he wouldn't wake even if he were to be hit over the head, but he's also been known to surprise me. Ever since my mom passed five years ago,he's either drank himself stupid and became dead to the world or, and my personal favorite, he became angry and abusive. I was lucky tonight.

I tiptoed around the creaky floorboards into the kitchen. I knelt down next to a set of drawers and pried the bottom wood plank off to retrieve my small black lock box.Glad to see it's still secured and safe; after the last incident I picked my hiding places better. I tried leaving just after my mom died, but being sixteen proved to be difficult. My dad being the prick he is, called the police and reported me as a runaway; granted it's what I was but I had my reasons. They brought me right to the front door and sealed my fate; I got the beating of a lifetime that night. I tried again when I was eighteen, but I didn't hide my savings as well as I thought and my father thanked me for the booze contribution. Ever since, I've been working hard to save more money so I can finally leave.

I started working a little after my mom died at this small diner about seven blocks from my house. The owner is a sweet elderly man who treats me more like a daughter than my father ever had. I wanted to work, mainly to avoid coming home but also because my father would rather spend his money on booze rather than food or bills. After paying the bills and restocking the fridge every paycheck I had a little to save, but after 4 years of working and a couple of set backs, I have enough to leave. Finally. I'll miss Mr. Reed, the owner of Elizabeth's Diner and also my boss, the most supportive and encouraging man I have ever met thus far.

I crept back towards the hallway; the recliner squeaks as my father stirs and I stop just behind the couch.My heart pounding hard against my chest as he struggles to stand.Shit! His small beer gut protruding from the white wife beater style tank top, well what was once white; now stained with grease and dirt.His short graying hair sticking up in various directions making him look almost comical, but I don't dare laugh. I quickly stash the lock box under the couch and swiftly stand to face him. His eyes are set deep into his skull from years of alcohol abuse and rimmed in dark circles. His skin seems to have aged years past him and washed out of any color it may have held. He stares at me with his dark brown empty eyes as if I'm stranger and then wobbles, slightly slumped forward,like the weight of the world is pressing between his shoulder blades,toward the kitchen.

"What are you staring at?" he asks in a groggy, dry kind of voice just before he reaches the kitchens barrier. I just shake my head and look at my shoes. He laughs, it'snot a pleasant sound; it's scratchy and grinds against my ear drums like a brick against concrete. I do my best to not draw attention to myself. The last thing I want is to take a bruise with me in my travels.

"You look just like her. Same eyes and hair," he grinds out before I hear the fridge open and glass bottles clinking together, "Couldn't tell you were half mine." he laughs as he twists off the cap to a cheap crappy light beer and takes a swig. I wonder if he even tastes it anymore. He stumbles back into the living room and back towards his chair.

Before he settles back into the recliner he takes one last look at me and snickers as if he's disgusted. This is normal; he'd comment on my resemblance to my mom and get angry, most of the time violent. I do look like her, almost exact, you wouldn't be able to tell us apart in photos. Only small features set us apart.

We share the same wavy black hair, except she always wore it pretty short and I always liked mine long. We had the same hazel eyes, same full mouth and pointed little nose. My mother had a soft delicate round face and where our features differed was that my features were a bit sharper like my father's. I inherited his height, his lack of curves, and his high cheek bones. Lucky me.