Gone with an Angel

Chapter Three:

I had fallen asleep. I woke up groggy and in a daze, staying still for a moment trying to gather my thoughts.

How long had I been asleep? What time was it? Most importantly, where was my father? I slowly rose myself off of the worn couch I had been sleeping on and glance around the room until my eyes land on a blinking red digital clock resting on the nightstand missing two legs. 9:30.

 I had been asleep for an hour and a half, and I wasn't awoken by anyone. I still hadn't heard or seen any signs of my father. I stood up and silently crept through the house, searching for any signs of life. Everything seemed undisturbed, so where could he be? I returned to my room and gathered my shoulder bag stuffed with some change, water, and anything else I may need last minute. I closed my bedroom door, and walked on my tip-toes towards the entrance to my house.

He must've left for beer, or something of the sort. I wasn't sticking around to find out. I pulled open the wooden front door and locked it behind me, breaking into a run back towards the bus stop. In this whole world, there was only one remotely safe place for me to be where he couldn't hurt me. Well, where he couldn't hurt me without someone noticing. It was also the only place where I had someone who cared about me, even if she couldn't show it.

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I stepped off the bus stop closest to the local hospital. I hoped they would still allow a visit even though it was getting late. I just needed to see her. I stepped into the white sterile anteroom of the hospital and checked in at the entrance.

The doctors and nurses greeted me with a familiar sad smile, something that always seems to say "why do you still even come here?" I showed a tight smile in return as they directed me to which room I was visiting. I didn't need their guidance; I had been here enough times to know.

I pulled open the brown wooden hospital room door and immediately felt tears well in my eyes. This happened every time I visited. I just couldn't stand to see her unmoving body lying flattened to the bed, her golden locks lying neatly against the white plush pillow.

Her eyelids shut, and her lips pulled closed. Her chest moved slowly up and down showing she was still breathing...but barely. She was not there, she was somewhere in dream land, while outside she's plugged into monitors with tubes snaking out of her body in various places. I pulled up an ugly mint green chair next to the hospital bed and sunk into it. I placed my hand on her head, cold. I brushed stray hairs out of her face and stared at her, trying to push away the tears already falling down my cheeks. This was the third year she's sat in this very bed, never waking up.

She was twelve then, too young to be here I realized. Somehow I felt like this was my fault. I should've been there. I shouldn't have left her. If I never left, would she still be awake and alive today? It wasn't fair, I should be there, and she should be out living her life with all of her friends. She was so smart, too. But then again, at least I knew she's safe there, able to escape and live through many, many dreams.

Three empty bottles of champagne lay strewn across the kitchen. Despite the circumstances, I had to eat. I had to feed my little sister, too. He hasn't surfaced from his room yet. I hope he's too hung-over to. I pull out bread and peanut butter, slowly spreading it to make for dinner. It's not a lot, but there isn't much we can have.

My father doesn't work, so we can only take so much. At least we have some food to feed our grumbling stomachs. My back is turned, while Shaylee sits on the floor, her back leaned against the side of the kitchen counter. I tell her I'll be right back, I need to go get something. I walk to our room she and I share and pull out a bottle of Coca-Cola from my bag. I had bought it for her, we hardly ever get to drink much of anything that has a taste. I slowly walk back towards the kitchen, smiling thinking of how her smile will be radiant when she sees what I have. It isn't much, but it's enough to bring a few rare seconds of happiness.

"Shaylee," I call, being sure she can note the smile in my voice.

I'm greeted with an unconscious sister, lying on the floor, with blood scorching from a head wound, and a broken champagne bottle lying next to her. My father is awake, and in his constant aggressive mood. I scramble towards his bedroom, my head being unclear with pure hatred for this man who never stopped tearing my life apart. I guess taking my mother wasn't enough. I never go into his room; it was an unstated rule that seemed clear enough. I had no reason to go in there anyways.

I scream at him, cursing, shouting, and running at him with my tiny fists that I know will make no difference. I'm so angry I can't control it, and I just have to try something. He punches me, giving me a nasty sting of a black eye. I know I should stop, so I do. I fall into a crumpled bit of tears right there at his feet.

He shoves me out of the room and shuts the door. I peer through the blanket of tears towards Shaylee, and see her eyes fluttering. There's still time. We don't have any phones in our house, so I run towards the bus stop where a pay phone is and slide in a few coins as my shaky fingers desperately dial 911.

I tell them there's been an accident and she's fallen. I can't tell the truth for fear of what my father will do to me. Ambulances arrive on the scene within minutes and carry her damaged body on a gurney into the hospital car. My father has slipped away during the massacre.

I stayed by her side for an hour, staring at her and wondering what's going on her beautiful little head. I missed her. She was beautiful, and favored my mother. I leaned forward and touched a kiss to her forehead, gave her hand one last squeeze, and whispered "I love you," in her ear. I hoped somewhere in her unconscious mind she knew I was there.