Blowing Winds

Chapter 3

    The next day I was ready to fake sick so I didn't have to go to school, which would have involved a thorough process of having to cover all the bruises and cuts with make up, but it turns out my parents didn't come up to check on me. If they even came home at all. My mom and dad may seem like the perfect couple, and at one time they were, but now they can't even look at each other without arguing. My dad even sleeps in the guest house. They don't even try to hide it for my sake anymore. I think the only reason they aren't divorced is so that they can still put up the facade that they are perfect. At home though? Those perfect faces and perfect smiles come down and the claws come out. I learned pretty fast that if I didn't want to get screamed at, to just stay out of it and go up to my room.

      I pulled myself out of my bed, groaning at the soreness of my body. Slowly, I made my way down the stairs and went into the kitchen. I looked for a note from either of my parents but didn't find one. Shocker. I heard an engine go by and I tensed, afraid it was Phillip coming to get me for school. It continued down the road and I relaxed. Of course it wasn't Phillip. He wouldn't want me to go to school today either. That's probably why he didn't pick me up. He knows he had left bruises in visible places this time. Grabbing a cereal bar, I went into the bathroom to assess the damage Phillip had done. I gasped quietly. The girl in the mirror didn't look like me. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Bruises covered her arms and legs. A hand print bruise was on her face and the cut was starting to scab over. A long bruise covered from one side of my neck to the other. Finally, I looked down at my thighs and saw finger print bruises where Phillip had pried my legs apart. Tears instantly flooded my eyes and I touched one gently. Pulling up my shirt slightly, I saw the places he'd kicked were swollen. I took a shaky breath. He could have killed me. The thought made my body start to shake and I felt the tears slowly slide down my face. It wasn't fair. He used to be so great. So sweet and caring. So... perfect. I turned the shower on and stripped down. Not caring that the water hadn't warmed up yet, I jumped in. I took my wash cloth and started scrubbing. I needed to get him off of me. I had to. I had to. I started to sob. Like, big chest heaving sobs. But I didn't stop scrubbing. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin was red and pink. I threw the washcloth down and watched it slide down towards the drain. I curled up at the end of the tub and just watched all the water as it crept down towards the drain and I could feel myself going with it. Down the drain and away forever.

         I turned off the water and pulled a towel around me. Climbing up the stairs and into the bed, I pulled my blankets tighter around me. I thought about the difference between the Phillip before and the Phillip now. He was everything I could ask for. He went to church, he made straight A's, and everyone loved him. All the girls wanted him and all the guys secretly wanted to be him. When he first was interested in me, I couldn't believe it. He, Phillip Rogers, liked me. When he would catch my hand and hold it or when he would bring it to his mouth and kiss it, my heart would melt into a million pieces. He was like an angel. An angel that was really a devil. It started slowly. About five months into our relationship, he'd pull me away from any guys that were around. He wanted to know where I was and who I was with. I thought he was just being protective. Then started the little digs.

'Are you sure you want to wear that?'

'You're hair looks bad. You should get it cut.'

'Do you really want to read that?'

'That looks hideous.'

'Why would you want to do that?'

They started to chip away at my self esteem. I changed things for him, things that would make him happier. Soon his digs became orders. And soon his orders brought punches. He always apologizes. He'll tell me he loves me and that he's sorry. He'll never do it again. The worst part is that I let him. I don't leave. Because a part of me still loves him like I used to. I am weak. I am weak, and I am alone.