The Abduction

a Cycle

    It's always the same. It's a cycle. I'm hated, I'm left to die.

    I keep sprinkling the ground up pot into the sliced open 'rillo, evenly distributing heaven into its transportation from earth to me. I smile at the thought, eventually finishing and sealing my blunt with one good, solid lick. I smile at my job well done, and place the flavored end in between my lips and fire it up.

    Inhaling the first hit, I stare out of my window, listening to the chaotic sounds coming from outside my bedroom door. My mom's shouting, my dad's violence. (Actually, I'm pretty sure he's not even my dad.)

    I exhale, and wonder what it's like to actually sleep at night.

    This isn't anything new to me. It's actually every night, unless something happens, like my mom leaving for the night or some shit.

    My room is cold. I inhale. This place is empty. I exhale. Soon I realize my blunt is halfway gone, and laugh. I search my conscious for any signs of intoxication, finding I've reached a level of happiness only this could provide. But why stop now? I keep smoking it, smiling at my reflection in my window every now and then. Soon my finger is burned by the remains of my joy.

    I throw the roach in the ashtray, and fall back on my bed. The numbness of concentrating on getting high is gone, now all that's left in my head are the effects of the THC and the hell that is my home.

    A sudden bang and a sudden burst, and my room is flooded with the magma-hot anger my door once served as a dam to hold out.

    "And where have you been?" my father's voice surrounds me, cooling the magma with my frigid fear.

    "Here." I manage to push out. Everything sounds like it's carried in the wind, but I'm in my room.

    "That's bullshit!" he snaps. I hear a crash and a shatter, and I slowly push my head to the corner that echoed the noise. It was a bottle of vodka.

    "No,no. It's not." I insist. "Where would I go?"

    "That's right," he says, his laugh bouncing from wall to wall and eventually in my head, "you ain't got nowhere."

    The last word to come from his mouth is pushed through my chest with a stake made of glass.

    I watch him as he pushes my door shut, sealing me in with the click of a lock. He walks closer to me, alcohol evident in this walk.

    The demon inside him sets me on fire, and a small whimper escapes my body.

    I would cry, I would shake, but I'm pleasurably numb, and I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid because it happens all the time, it's a part of the cycle.

    I soon notice the sweat dripping down my face and whipe it away.

    He throws himself on top of me, yanking at my clothes. I close my eyes and try to imagine something else.

    I become colder as the layers covering my body are disappearing, and I remember how frozen it is because of how afraid I am. I try to calm down, but how can you be taken over so demandingly and remain calm?

    The fuzziness in my head is cleared like the peace in a tranquil home, by the pain of an intruder forcing his way in the back door.

    Now I realize that the sweat I've been wiping away has been tears all along. It's amazing how clear some things become when you're in pain.

    Although it only lasts a few minutes, they drag on like lifetime after lifetime. Eventually, though, his madness ends and mine begins.

    Barely able to put the pain in the back of my head, I push myself up and in an instant, he's gone. I never heard the door open or close, but I'm not questioning my blessings.