Kimberly's Story

An Un-Called For Confession

I sit on my bed, staring out the window. The trees are limp with snow and there is white in every direction. The driveway is layered with blankets of bright white snow and the sidewalk is beginning to freeze. I shiver. The heat in the house is turned off. Someone forgot to pay the bills again, I think to myself. 

Images of myself as a little kid, dancing and twirling in the snow, flicker across my mind. I remember when the snow lightened even the worst of moods and replaced sorrow with happiness. Those were the good days. Not like now. Things have changed, more than I can say.

I was different.

So were my parents.  

I shake my head and try to fill my head with good thoughts. None come to mind. 

I get up and lean against my broken door. It is cracked and the doorknob is bent. The wood digs into my back, probably leaving a cut. I remember how it happened as if it were yesterday.  

--- 

My dad was screaming and yelling words I prefer not to repeat. He was wearing a stained white shirt with a clearly visible beer belly underneath. His face was fierce and strong and his jaw strained and clenched. What scared me the most were his eyes. They were bloodshot and wide, cruel. He screamed about money, threatening to leave with it all. My dad was crazy. Literally. He believed people were after him, it was just the way he was. Everything always had to be about him, and how people didn't want him to succeed. It was nonsense, of course.  

I've heard this argument millions of times yet it still scared me when he inched closer to my mom. Showing her what he is capable of, as if we didn't already know. 

My mom was in the kitchen, crying and pleading with him to listen. To reassure him that people weren't out to get him. It was no use, he wouldn't listen. It was too late to get through to him.

I hid in the kitchen as my dad threw his beer bottles at my door. My mother was dodging them as though she did this everyday. She finally gave up protecting my door and ran out the door. I remember feeling deserted, alone, frightened.

My dad was furious. He had run up to my door and started to pound on it. He started to get angry that it did not break so he punched it.

Stupid, I had thought. And frightening.

He slammed the doorknob until it broke off and shut his bedroom door with unnecessary force. I still ask myself why he broke my door. You never know what he will do when he is drunk. Now that I mention it, even if he wasn't drunk he was unpredictable.

My mom may look tough, with her long black hair and dark brown eyes but she was still petite and fragile. She was too sensitive, too gentle. That is why I love her so much, she was so nurturing and loving. Too bad she didn't care about that sort of stuff anymore. She stopped caring about me years ago when things first started to get bad at home.  

--- 

I open my eyes to find myself back-to-back with the door. I can hear my father snoring. It was noon but that didn't stop him from skipping work again. My mom was up and was cleaning the house. I would help her but I know she would refuse. Sometimes she ignores me completely, scared to say a word. I know how she feels.

My dad is like a ticking time bomb. You didn't know when he would explode, and it scared her.

I look towards my mirror. A fifteen year-old girl with pale skin and dark eyes stares back at me. I glare at my short black hair that hangs limp on my shoulders. I had tried to cut it last night and it didn't work that well. I had cut my neck accidentally. I remember trying to stop the bleeding. Finally, I had got fed up as it continued to soak the back of my shirt. I had ripped off my shirt and accidentally cut my arm with the scissors still in my hand.