I woke up to the crash of another thrown object downstairs. I cautiously rolled over, listening for the sound of someone in pain. After about 5 minutes I began to drift to sleep again, right before another bang was heard. I looked at the clock and it was 2:26am. I got up pulling my hair into a pony tail, and grabbed my cardigan. Padding downstairs I began to hear whimpers and mumbled pleads for help. It was Mother. I turned the corner to come across the familiar scene that was my family living room. Mom was cornered in the back of the room, with my looming father standing above her. He held sharp pieces of the broken vase that was smashed closely near her. I sighed taking in my parents. My father was drunk again, and mother was letting him take control. I gently call my father’s name trying to get the attention away from my mom. Her eyes darted to me with fright as he slowly turned towards me. My father’s bloodshot eyes met my under slept ones, and I forced myself to remain calm.
“Father.” I repeated. “What are you doing out here? You should go lay down.”
My suggestion was quickly shot down as he ignored my words turning quickly and angrily back to my mother. She whimpered in fear once more, and I walked swiftly to where he stood. As I got closer, my mother’s tear stricken face was clearer and more distraught than I thought. I softy press my palm to my father’s shoulder to calm his intoxicated rage. “Dad,” I whisper so softly I wasn’t sure he heard it. He dropped the pieces of glass to the side and sobbed, turning to hug me. I never understood why, but I could always sober him up, and pull him from his angry state of mind.
“I’m sorry, sorry, s-so sorry. Please forgive me Lena. I’m so sorry.” His apologies were repeated broken heartily, but meant nothing to me anymore. This has become too often of a habit. I’m surprised to see my mother still around, but she claims to still love the man inside; the man he used to be.
I pulled away. “Go to bed dad. You’ve done enough out here.” I say somewhat coldly as I see his eyes dart to my mother, the broken vase and the knocked over coffee table. Helping my mother up off the ground I can hear fathers slightly off-rhythm footsteps leading to the master bedroom across the house. I lead her to couch, then head to the kitchen. I grab the box stuffed with band aids, Neosporin and other medical necessities from under the sink then retrieve the ice pack from the freezer. By the time I arrive back at the couch my mother is fast asleep, her head slumped against the couch’s arm. I wiped her tear soaked face with a tissue and quietly open the medical box. I cleaned the cuts on her left arm from the glass and bandaged it. I then lightly iced her eye that began to swell some. He must have hit her when he first got home. It wouldn’t be the first time. She stirred, and her eyelids fluttered some at the contact of the ice pack to her cheekbone.
After about 10 minutes of icing her face, I tucked her in with the throw blanket we keep on the smaller couch and kissed her forehead. Hopefully father will leave her be the rest of the night and she’ll get some sleep. I put away the kit and ice, and quietly make my way upstairs. I slid off my cardigan and hung it on the back of my computer chair. Quickly checking my phones for messages I noticed that it had only been approximately 45 minutes. It typically takes me at least another 20 to stop the nonsense, but I went downstairs a little later this evening. With one last glance at my phone I put it on the corner of my desk and climb into bed.
My thoughts consume me as I try to focus on sleep. I hate how my father treats our family. What is left at least. My older brother Jason left our house as soon as he turned 18. He was sick of how this house hold is held, and left us. I don’t blame him. When I was younger I use to cry every night my father came home the way he did, and would abuse my mother. I’d bawl my eyes out, and scream into my pillow. Now, I’ve grown use to his actions, and have been able to manage my father’s abuse... a bit. Times now have become more difficult, because my mother feels the urge to protect me from him and hide her abused body. She’ll blame the counter, or something at work, but I know her and my dad well enough to know that most of the words that leave her mouth are lies.
I’ve already seen him at his worst; doesn’t she get that by now? Her need to protect her daughter from her drunken mess of a father is 5 years too late.
I stared at my clock and watched as the time ticked away. 3:30… 4:00… and so on. By the time 5:00 came around I had agreed with the fact that sleep didn’t want me, and decided to just shower and get ready for school. I turned on the radio and began to apply my makeup. I put a light natural eye shadow on my eyelid, along with a thin line of eyeliner from the middle out to make my eyes appear a bit bigger and brighter. I finish the look with mascara and some chap stick, and quickly and messily French braid my hair. I slide on my t-shirt, jeans and white low top converse and am now ready for school. I tip toe downstairs not feeling hungry enough for breakfast, and head toward the front door. I peek my head into the living room not expecting to see my mother still passed out where I left her last night and decide to head back into the kitchen to find a note pad.
I scribble a sideways message explaining that if she needs me, she can just text me and I’ll leave school. I mention that I love her and that I’d be home around 2:30 this afternoon. My mind drifts to when I was younger and would get little post-it notes in my lunchbox. I sign my signature heart and Lena at the bottom. Rushing out the door I grab my backpack and car keys, ignoring the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Ridgeway High, here I come.
