She Writes

Protesting for Yourself

Short story written for my English 2 class also to be entered into a writing contest. The formatting on this is questionable but enjoy.
...
I woke up to screaming, which in my case, wasn't really out of the ordinary. I had been startled from sleep by noise that, for once, wasn't coming from inside the tiny apartment I shared with my father and whatever ignorant woman that decided to stay the night with him. This time, instead of the usual alcohol induced rage of my father, the angry voices came from outside the small, open window by the rickety table in our make-shift kitchen area. I slid out of my bed slowly and silently, careful to observe that my father was fast asleep with a half empty beer bottle by his side, no strange women in sight. I hurried across the creaky floor boards, shimmed around the table, and turned to crack the window open a bit farther. I watched the crowd below, clearing my head from sleep and trying to decipher the shouting from the messages being supported and rejected among the protestors.
"Equality and acceptance!"
"Stand up for human rights!"
"Freedom now!"
"Equality!"
"Acceptance!"
"Human rights!"
"Freedom!"
Freedom.
More than a word, almost a tangible thing. Something I had heard, dreamed of, hoped for for as long as I could understand the situation I was in. When my mother left me with my father, promising to come back and take me with her, freedom was near by, close to being within reach. My mother would get out of the house when she could to join in with the protesting crowds. She would tell me about how sometimes she didn't even know what they were protesting. She went down there just so she could yell about trying to escape from her abusive husband and save her precious daughter. She would tell me she was protesting our own situation, for me and for herself.
Freedom has been out of the picture for me for three years now. My mother didn't come back as she told me she would and I have fallen into routine of finding alcohol for my father, or not finding any and suffering the consequences. As the crowd below continued to march and fight, I wondered if I could ever be like them and stand up for my future. My thoughts of freedom and escape were quickly interrupted by a loud shattering noise followed by angry muttering.
My daily routine is always the same, it has become the only constant in my life. Once my dad wakes up, I quickly attend to his needs, whether it be pain pills, water, food, or more alcohol. I try to get to school, but some days he needed too much or I was too weak or embarrassed to show up. I am controlled by him, and after being tired of it for years, the anger has built up and I know I have almost hit my breaking point.
I hear glass clinking together and scratching the floor, but I am too focused on the internal conflicts in my head to pay attention to the figure shuffling towards me.
"Grab me another one, would-ja."
His slimy voice momentarily choked the powerful thoughts of freedom that had been flowing through me head, but they weren't gone. They were present enough to cause me to stop and consider my options. Safe option: grab him a beer and move on. Go back to your seat outside the window where you can continue to watch people move mountains below. Risky option: contest. Try doing something about the situation you're in and see what happens. You know it couldn't get much worse than this.
My heart was racing as a shift my eyes between the grimy, white fridge and the cracked open window, finally resting in between on my father. Fridge or freedom?
"Equality and acceptance!"
Fridge...?
"Stand up for human rights!"
...or freedom?
"Freedom now!"
Freedom.
"No."
"Excuse me, girl?"
"I'm not letting you take my freedom anymore."
I don't remember grabbing my backpack or even opening up the couple of drawers I have, but I knew I had to rush while he's still in shock, you grab what you need as fast as you can and don't stop until you're free. Apparently I didn't need to worry though because as I scurried out the door and took one last look, he almost looked sad, betrayed even. I was not going to let that stop me, but I whispered the smallest "I'm sorry," and shut the door behind me.
The streets were still full so I jumped in to start my journey to a place I had yet to determine. I still had a lot to sort out, I had few to trust, but I could find someone to stay with for a few days. Then, the mysterious, messy, free unknown. Perhaps I could finally go find my mom, find some friends, find a new life. But in the mean time, all I could do was embrace the decision I made with a new found hope and joy. It felt good to be able to yell the word I'd been searching for with meaning.
"Freedom."