Scars

Glass Shards

"Bzzzzzzz." My alarm buzzed incessantly as I squinted in the darkness of my small room. I jab my finger on the small dials trying to silence the sound before HE hears. I silence the alarm and swing my legs off of my bed. I slowly open my bedroom door clutching my tiny flashlight in my hand. I can't afford to turn on any of the lights on; he might be sleeping on the couch.

I slowly take a step out of my bedroom, "Shit!" I wince as I step on something. It feels like glass, yeah definitely glass. I feel the shards piercing into my foot as I limp on my heels to the other side of the hallway. I shine the dim light just outside my bedroom door. I quickly see what I've stood on: the shattered reamins of a whiskey bottle lay at the ground. I looked at the brown stain on the carpet where the bottle had broke. Anger flared up inside me like a blazing fire through my entire body in a second. He had thrown a bottle at me, a freakin' bottle! I try to remember what had happened and quickly remember the argument we had the night before.

***

"Where the Hell have you been?" He screamed at me with the ssmell of alcohol on his breath.

"Sorry. I was out." I muttered making sure my gym bag was hidden from his view.

"Look at me when I speak to you!" He commanded. My face contorted into disgust as I felt his spit fall on my face. "And where would out be?" He asked with narrow eyes.

"I went to the park for some air." I whispered.

"No doubt spending my money for drugs. That's it isn't it? You think you can sneak around taking my money for your drugs? Well?" he demanded straightening up?

"Are you crazy?" I said shocked that he would think I would even want ot touch that stuff. "Exactly what moeny are you talking about? I haven't seen any lying around this house in years."

"Don' you play dumb wit' me you BItch!" he screamed shoving at me. "The money for ma' drinks! The money I spend to keep this house afloat an' get food for you to make for me!" his words were slurred as he spoke; spit flew off of his lips with evey word. I looked to see an empty vodka botlle and a 6-pack of beer cans scattered along the floor. Plus the whiskey bottle he was sloshing around in his hand.

"You're drunk, Dad." more drunk than usual at least.

"Am I?" he asked, laughing at my words. "Well it ain't easy trying to look after a thirteen year old slut. Especially a slut who steals my money for her drugs!"

"Fourteen." I said.

"What?"

"I'm fourteen, Dad. Remember, Thursday was my birthday." I didn't say this trying to make him feel guilty. After mum died he had only ever remmebered one birthday.

There was a long pause after I said this. Maybe he was just trying to think of the dates, or maybe he was thinking how to punish me for answering him back. "You little liar." he whispered, "You think you can guilt me into thinking that this is my fault! You think that by telling me it's your birthday I'll feel bad!"

None of the things he said were questions. He was screaming at me with fire in his eyes.

"You're just like her!" he was delirious now; swinging the bottle around like a club he approached me. I started to back away slowly. "You are! You don't care about anyoone but yourself! You just stand there brigning other people down. As long as yyou get it your way, then your happy, Olivia!"

I freeze at his words; I keep my head down. I wince as I remember the throb in my arm from the last time he had called me by her name. "No sudden moves," I think to myself, "he's really drunk, so no chance of calming him down." I keep my down low, but I slowly raise my eyes to face him. He was standing there shaking as he whispered something I couldn't make out.

"What, Dad?" I ask as soft as I can muster. My entire body is screaming at me to just run out the door. I shake it off knowing that if I ran it will be even worse when I come back. "Then don't come back." The voice tells me; I don't listen.

"Go." he whispers to me. I breath out slowly and start to walk passed him. "I said go!" He screams. Suddenly, I hear footsteps charging after me. I tell out in fear and sprint to my room slamming the door shut behind me. I lean against the door and slide down to the floor.

I slowly start counting under my breath, "One." he's grabbing a belt or something heavy. "Two." he's at the door trying to decide between the three door knobs he sees. "Three." the door breaks open, he decided to kick it down, throwing me to the side. "Four." we both scream; one in anger and the other in fear. "Five." I'm dead now. He's standing over my beaten body.

I open my eye; no sound comes from the hall. I have survived one more night.

***

I shake the memory away. There's no time to get pissed: I have to get to work before school and get my work out in. I head to the potted tree by the curtain and push the plastic leaves away to see my gym bag still concealed by the rubber mulch pieces. I look over at his sleeping figure. His mouth is wide open, and his breathing is slow and deep. Another empty bottle is laying on top of his big round stomach. I carefully pull the bag out of the pot. Every time I brush against the leaves I stop; you would think I'd be better at this by now, but even after four years of sneaking around I still am just as careful.

"That's good though," I think to myself, "otherwise you get lazy, and then careless." I finally get the gym bag out and sling it over my shoulder. I open the door slowly, careful to make sure the chain doesn't jingle. I step onto the sidewalk and gently close the door. I can finally breath. I close my eyes and allow myself a small smile as I breath in the crisp autumn air. I pull out the battered old stopwatch I borrowed from work and set it up. I quickly bend down on the uneven path to tie my shoes.

I breath out slowly and start running. I know I need to get my heart rate; I pump my arms up and down like the old fashioned trains. Up, down, up, down. I quickly race passed the empty alley ways; as I look at my timer every few minutes. I'm pleased with it; but I can do better. I try to pump my legs even faster, my arms are working like pistons. I turn the final corner and see the gym at the end of the street. I go as hard as I possibly can for the next 200 yards.

I come to a halt pressing the timer as I try and get the air into my lungs. I look at my time, 14:33.7; I nod in satisfaction. I quickly fish my keys from the bottom of my bag and unlock the door. "Time for work." I think to myself as I step through the door.