Rooftops - A Year In The Making

Prologue

My teeth bitterly clench together as the sharp jolt of pain seers its way through my arm and to the ends of my fingertips. 'Follow you' by Bring me the horizon is playing in the background but I'm in no mood for singing along. 'My head is haunting me and my heart feels like a ghost.' The people in my music, the people in my books, they're the only ones that understand what I feel.

The scars that were already on my arm haven't had time to heal, yet I am still replacing them. Blood starts to run down my arm and stops at my bent elbow. It creates a pool of blood in the seam of my skin and starts to dry into a blackened red colour quickly.

Why do I put myself through pain? I don't know, I can't explain it, it's just an escape, and once you start, you just can't stop. I feel stupid at times. Millions of people have it worse than me. That's why I've never told anyone, and never will. Not that I have anyone to tell. I lean backwards on my stool that I use for my guitar, as I am slipping off slowly, and, as my back gently brushes against the poster-covered wall, I jump in pain as my fresh bruise reminds me of its presence. Sitting there for a minute, I allow the piercing pain in my back to fade into a dull hum before I readjust my position.

Slowly feeling along the spine bone, where every disk is prominent, I reach the bruise about half way down. I haven't looked at it, I don't want to, but as I feel the damaged skin, I can tell it is roughly the size of a fist.

It is probably a blue-ish colour by now. As it was only yesterday, the redness should be going and slowly being replaced by a blue. Not a nice sea blue, like one in the Mediterranean, where holiday makers go to have a good time. More like a misty sea blue, as dusk is approaching and a thick layer of punishing fog covers the water.

As I judge the new bruise it reminds me of the knife in my hand and my mind starts to think of how this ugly pain came to overtake my back.

(Flashback)

"I'm back" I said, much less than cheerily as I opened the front door. When I came in I had the sudden urge to wash my hands again as the sight of the small hallway greeted me. The old wooden chair was in the usual place under the shelf near the doorway. I had never seen it sat on by anyone, its purpose was just to simply drape clothes over or occasionally rest keys as you came in.

The shelf had the usual paper work, overdue bills and disregarded un-opened letters I wasn't allowed near. But mum had obviously decided to use it as a medication shelf for her pills on that particular Friday. Prescription, chemist and really-not-chemist pills.

"Finally, I was wondering when you would have the nerve to show up here!" She slurred, falling over the old couch and tripping on the bare floorboards. I didn't feel in the mood for a lecture then so I started to walk up the stairs that were right in-front of me, cramped into the small space.

I always thought the hall should be a nice space, a good impression as you walked in and an insight to a family and their lives. But the impression ours gave left less to be desired. Of course this was a perfectly good insight into our 'family'.

"Don't you dare!" She ran at me grabbing the moth-bitten collar of my school shirt from behind and making me fall down the few stairs I had climbed. I fell against the door, and the hard mat was surprisingly soft on my pale skin in comparison to our rotting floor boards everywhere else. I looked up at her.

Her eyes were full of hatred and anger. I know she's drunk, and on all kinds of drugs, I'm not stupid. But a part of me thinks that she does actually hate me, that the sober 'mum' is just as bad. Just as horrid, maybe she actually likes making my life living hell.

"I've just been off the phone to your, Head master! He wants to know if I have anything to do with the --STAND UP WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU-- cuts and bruises on your legs, your teacher saw them in P.E!" I slowly stood up so my back was against the wooden door and she was just in-front of me.

"Haven't I told you" Her voice lead into a whisper "that what happens in here STAYS IN HERE!!!?" Her fist flew at my face but I managed to avoid it by ducking. I then ran up the stairs, catching my unfortunate leg on a handbag strap half way up.

I tried to untangle it, losing precious time in my panicked state, the strap was faux leather and sticky. But in my desperation I just tangled it even more. I could hear her approaching after her mind finally caught up with her eyes. She was then near. She wasn't fast, but I wasn't moving, at all. I felt her arm on my leg trying to pull me down but thankfully I was holding onto the banister. When her grip left, I let go of the wooden rail to untangle my foot. Finally. I'm free! But as I turned around she was there. A towering statue above me on the narrow stair case.

"You're trying to get me into trouble, ya lil bitch!" As she shouted in my face I could only crouch in fear as I looked up at her; spit flying out of her mouth, beer stained baggy t-shirt and she felt no need for trousers. Her hand swooped down for my face again but this time it collided. I felt myself fall backwards and curl up as I hurtled down the steep stairs. There was only a small, square area at the bottom and as I landed my back folded in every way that it shouldn't against the unforgiving door.

Leaving me stuck there. My mother stood standing above me, laughing.

As I get to this part of the painful memory I push the blade in further. More blood trickles down my arm and I wish it would take me away, but it doesn't.