chapter 2; new job, old memories
The next day I came to the art store ready to relax and sketch a little but it turned it a job interview. Apparently I'm perfect for a job. Why the owner thinks I'm perfect, I don't know. I did find out though that the employee I met yesterday was the owner's son and I made a good impression. First time for everything. So he offered me a job.
Now I've been here 3 days. So far so good. Well... good? Maybe not. I've been sleeping in the van. Not so much different but still sucks. Late shifts are the worst part about working at the art store because no one comes in. It's empty. It's quiet. And I'm left with my thoughts. Not a pretty thing. My mind sucks people in. Thoughts hide, waiting for their time to attack and believe me (a recovering veteran) that when the stampede of heavy thoughts begins it will not stop for hours. It will win. It will destroy. And worst of all it turns you into them. This is what I deal with. A private war. now I don't even know how to fight.
Please, please don't do this! Not again! I cannot take another night. I cry sitting against my door. I can hear her. Wailing. She cries about nothing. I know this because she does not feel anymore. Years of the bottle have numbed her senses. She screeches. Probably fell. Again.
Please stop, if he comes home early again he'll be mad. He's fists will be hard and bloodthirsty. It will be an even longer night. And when the crying is silenced, he will come up here. Probably knock. Because that polite thing to do but there is nothing polite about his intentions. He young now wants a piece of the action and it's looking for a victim. He will yell. He will spit. He will throw things where -if I was slower- my head would have been. He will grab my hair and throw me into the wall. One of his signature moves. Then when the blood has dried and the bruises iced he will tell us how he was out of line, like he could see or even find the line now, even if he tried. He will apologize. And my mom will pour a glass.
So I get up off the ground and lay down in bed. Cover my ears with a pillow and pray that he would be out gambling late tonight. Yah that would be good.
I have to calm down. This can't happen here. What would they think of me if I just broke down here? Hold it in. Suppress. Flashes keep coming of nights just like that. I close my eyes and tighten my fists. Think of the task at hand. Don't let your mind wonder. Wonder and you're dead.
Stock shelves. Shelves. Focused on the shelves. Why don't I leave? Was that not a memory? But I like it here. But... remember, the memory. Shit, I'm bad at this. Been here 3 days and already I won't leave.
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sorry this was short; it's been a long week but I promise the next one will be longer
