Dream Catch Me (Student/Teacher)

Dream Catch Me - Chapter Five

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I ran further than I've even run before, feeling the need to run away from the thoughts of Mr Lewis. I don't know what to do.. Do I need to report it? Surely he can't get away with it. But what if it was love? Who am I to stand in the way of the abstract noun of love? Denying someone something I will most likely never have? I don't know if I could do it.

Perhaps Fletch will know what to do. Even though it was early days I felt like we were going to be great friends. I've decided, tomorrow, I'll tell Fletch and ask for his advice. Will a little more of a clear head, I ran past the library, the centre of town, out into the outer suburbs where the houses seemed to thin out more. I came across a park with a swing set and a seesaw, the creaky chain of the swing catching my attention. I can't remember the last time I had a go on a swing, probably before my father left. Acting on a whim, I approached the swing and sat down. I lifted my feet off the sandy cushion underneath and swung my legs back and forth. In no time I was flying up in the air, feeling like I was flying. If only life was really like that, if only I could swing away from it all. The cold wind rushed past my ears, cancelling out the creaky sound of the chain. I kept swinging until the sun went down, dipping below the rooftops and then below the horizon line, leaving a faint orange yellow glow.

I slowed down by dragging my running shoes on the ground, coming to a complete stop. I started walking out of the park, still on the slight high from the swing. Meanwhile the sky was getting darker so I began to run again, going back the way I came, into the suburbs, through town and past the library before I came to the front door of my new house. The front living room light was on and my brother's car wasn't in the driveway. This couldn't be good. My Mother only really abused me when he wasn't around, as if she was scared for him to know what he probably already knew.

I cautiously opened the door, trying not to make a sound as the latch clicked opened. As I stepped inside a wave of smells hit me. The smell of cigarettes, alcohol and burning food. I cautiously walked through the kitchen doorway and checked there wasn't anything that could catch on fire or was already on fire. I spotted a pot on the stove, the gas flame still on, and ran over to it quickly pulling it off the stove. And that was my mistake, without thinking aout how hot the pot would be, the handle scorched the inside of my hand, the palm a now unnatural red with a line of blisters travelling form the top of my hand to the base of my palm. Sprinting to the sink I turned the cold water on, now forgetting to be quiet to not disturb my Mother and let the freezing water run over the melted skin. The strange thing for many people, may have been the fact that I didn't cry. I have never been one to cry since my Father left. When he left, he took away my happiness as a child. I was constantly thinking if it was my fault he left. What did I do? Was it because I never did my homework? Was it because I didn't like the dinner we had that night? These questions I think were not the ones that should be running through a child's mind. So as I stood there mindlessly by the sink, the water swirling around my hand and into the sink, no tears fell. Not even a glassy eye.

A large thump from the living room broke me from my mindless state, as I hurried to turn the tap off. Immediately, my heart rate spiked and I was quivering in my running shoes. My Brother still wasn't home.

Not good.

Mother stumbled into the kitchen, bumping against the doorway as she did so. Her bloodshot eyes immediatly sough out my own, burning their way into my soul. Wasting no time at all she shouted and slurred at me, "What are you doing? I was cooking that food!" the spit from her lip jumping at my face.

"It was already cooked, it was burning actually," I replied with more atttitude than I thought, hoping she hadn't picked up on it. Unfortuntely she had.

"Don't you speak to me like that you little bitch! I have given you everything in the world and you repay me by being an ungrateful smart-arse?" She continued to shout at me, so I lowered my head, inspecting my blistered hand. That was going to be painful in the morning, and probably feel like it is on fire all night. I sighed, remembering the last time I was brunt this badly...

It was a Friday night and I was sitting in the dining room and by that I mean the room with the table in it, doing my homework for the weekend. My mother walked in with a pan of bacon which she had just been cooking. Too absorbed in my homework I didn't notice her coming up behind me with the pan and she pushed it down onto the back of my arm at my tricep. I scremed the loudest I have ever heard myself scream, not because of the pain but because of the shock. The only reaction my mother gave was a small chuckle becfore she sauntered into the kitchen where she ate that bacon. Lets just say, I've never eaten bacon ever again, the smell reminding me of my burning skin that night..."......listening to me??" the volume of the shouting increased by several hundred decibels as my Mother struggled to keep my attention. I looked up just in time to see a fist heading right towards my left cheek. My slow reaction and lack of attention resulting little time for me to dodge the blow, so I did what little I could to keep my pride and I stood there as the fist plunged into my face. I thought that in her drunk state she wouldn't be up for much of a fight. Oh how I was wrong.

Wasting no time at all she kicked my left knee sending me sprawling to the ground, limbs flying out in all directions. Once my forehead my contact with the cold black and white linoleum she continued to kick me, her foot crashing into my side, as she were trying to send her whole foot through my body. At first I struggled against her blows, but when remembering it wouldn't do any help I just lay there and waited untill the blows had ceased. After too many kicks to count, including one to my shoulder, My mother got bored when I wasn't fighting against her anymore, it had lost all the fun for her.

I distinctly heard her say, "Piece of shit, don't tell your Brother about this," before she stumbled up the stairs to her bedroom. After the slam of her door reverberated through the wooden floors I let out an internal sigh of relief and rolled onto my back. Shooting pains were going up and down my side and as I let out a breath my left side felt odd so I lifted up my running shirt to inspect the damage. However, I couldn't see much as one of her blows had split my skin, letting me bleed all over the kitchen floor. I pulled the dish towel down from the bench and wrapped it around my waist before slowly standing and looking around the kitchen. The floor was covered in blood, a few broken dishes which I hadn't noticed fall to the floor during my struggle and the food was still sending out a faint smoke as if it were asking for help, a signal for rescue. If only, i thought.

Not wanting to get in more trouble in the morning, I grabbed the dustpan and swept up the shards of the dishes. Slowly of course. Even though the pain was unbearable it didn't bother me too much, somehow I enjoyed the pain and it reminded me that I still existed, was still human.

I cleaned up my blood from the floor and scrubbed the charred remains of who knows what from the pot that was on the stove. When the kitchen resembled what it looked like when I left this morning I limped up the stairs to the bathroom. I switched the light on, a low yellow glow now illuminating the compact bathroom. the dish towel tied around my waist was no longer the green and white striped it once was, it was dripping in my blood. I guess that extra cleanign up didn't help stop the flow of the blood.

I carefully stepped into the shower after stripping down and let the water run down over my body. Relishing in its warmth helped wake me up from the drowsiness of my blood loss. I cleaned the sweat from my body from my earlier run. turning off the water, I stood in the shower, watching the last dribble of water run down the drain, tinged slightly pink from my blood.

After stepping out, I opened up the medicince cupboard under the sink and fixed myself up. As I was bandaging right around my midriif I noticed the flourishing bruises spread right across my abdomen. A surge of anger entered me. Why should I have to do this? No teenager or any child, wife, husband or anyone should have to stitch themsleves up after a beating. No one. After so many years I was used to this, but now I was at breaking point. I wonder when it will all stop, or if it will get worse before it can get better.

I threw my now soiled and ruined running clothes in the bin in my room before I crawled between the safety of my flannelette sheets and closed my eyes, yet knwoing my mind would not allow sleep to consume me. A million thoughts were racing through my mind, my mother, my brother, but most of all Mr. Lewis.

What was I going to do?