Fresh Wounds

Welcome to Hell

Show love to my story please! It's my first one I'm making public, I write a lot. Please comment, vote, add to your library and get others to read also!!

Otherwise, enjoy!

*Kimberly in the media*

Kimberly

"Kim, SHUT UP! Just bring my black one! It's in the closet like the others; or are you too stupid to even check there?!" I could hear my mom's irritated, slurred voice yelling at me from downstairs.

I hadn't said anything at all. And I could not find her ugly jacket. Her bedroom was a wreck and smelled like straight up alcohol. And smoke. . You seriously can't find anything in this horrid mess; magazines, newspapers, DVDs, CDs, takeout menus, dirty clothes, clean clothes and trash in infinite piles. Everywhere. Honestly, I can't even see the carpet. Did we even have carpet in this room? Oh, who remembers?

My mom's quick footsteps lightly ascended our creaky, wooden stairs. It was right at that moment I spotted the black jacket sleeve from under a pizza box; I snatched it and ran out of the room. My mom was making her way down the hall to me as I was making my way to her and we met in the middle of the hall.

Peering a hole into the floor I handed her the jacket as she ripped it from my grasp. She looked down at the jacket in her hand, as if in deep thought, for about 30 seconds then glanced at me and back again. She looked back and forth between me and the jacket about 8 times, I counted, then, to add to my fear and confusion, she began to laugh -or, chuckle really. Her red, hungover eyes focused on me as a pair of Lion eyes would on a gazelle. WHACK! In one swift motion, she slapped me with the back of her hand, causing me to slam into the wall and a small, whimper of a cry to escape my throat. Her wedding picture fell onto the floor, shattering the glass.

"I said the red one," she lied. "You don't listen to me! Why are you so STUPID?" My mom stormed into her room as I took deep breaths, as silent as I could; still huddled against the wall, focusing on the many shards of glass surrounding me. My cheek burned from the cut drew by her wedding ring and the blood  dripped down onto the floor around my shoe...Too afraid to move, I stood still; my bloody wound could wait. The door to the "Master Pig Sty" squeaked open and I jumped at the slam of the door.

"Why are you just standing there? Clean up the mess you've made. Stupid hoe, move!," my mom snarled at me, before bouncing down the stairs as if her entire day had been made because of my suffering. She had an interview to go to making it the fourth one this week. It's only Wednesday.

My mom hasn't had a stable job since I was about 6 and I'm 15 now, turning 16 in three and a half weeks. The last stable job she had was as an accountant...but that was before James.

At first when they started dating, he never even came around. Like, ever. It wasn't until the day before the wedding that he showed face to someone besides my mother. My sister, Liv, and I hadn't seen him, just his car.

Our mother was never close to us or "motherly" to say the least. She didn't read us bedtime stories or cook very well and certainly didn't ask about our day. She never bought us special gifts and most definitely did not care about our opinions or thoughts. Our mother strongly believed the whole, "children are better seen and not heard" ideal. Her mind always seems to focus or prioritize other things before her own children. But there were times in the past that I remember, she would actually enjoy our presence, laugh and even smile. When James came along, that's when my mom started drinking and smoking. Well...drinking and smoking heavier than before, that is.

My real father left when my sister was 11 and a half months; I had just turned nine and Liv was turning 1 within the next two weeks. We got along pretty well after he left. My mom was still making five figures so money was never an issue for us. She gave my sister and I what we needed -in a materialistic sense anyways. But the following year, my mom's mother, Belle Elise Love, passed away. That is when I think my mother began to originally lose focus. The smoking and drinking began and she was prescribed antidepressants. Somehow it made her worse, her personality just wasn't the same and seemed to not be there at all. It was like living with a damn stranger.

For weeks at a time she'd stay in her room; she'd take a leave-of-absence from work just to sit around and mope...

"Kimberly," she slurred one evening from the den. I'd been working on calculus and relieved for a break, I sprinted down the hall.

"Yes?" My mom was sitting in the dark, holding her head in her left hand and in her right was a tight fist as if she was gripping something precious.

"I need you to go to the store," she paused and unfolded her shaking right hand, revealing a hundred dollar bill.

"With one hundred dollars?" I was shocked. A hundred dollars for a trip to the supermarket? Surely, she made a mistake, I thought.

"Yes, a hundred," she mocked the way I said "hundred". "Buy stuff for lunch and dinner. Things you know how to cook," she ordered, lifting her head slightly. I silently reached for the moment and gently removed it from her grasp. As I turned to leave, my mother sat up suddenly, eyes widened with my arm tight in her grip. I let out a small cry; she was twisting my arm. She yanked me close to her -so close I could feel the dampness of her alcoholic breath.

"If you waste that money Kimberly Belle Queen, so help me God, I will make you regret it." I shut my eyes and nodded then left the den. I had wanted to scream or cry but I couldn't. I looked down at my throbbing arm as a palm shaped bruise began to form above my elbow, wrapping around my entire arm. Clenching the bill, I sped walked down the curb, wanting to make it back before Live came back from a friend's pool party. She doesn't like to be at that house without me and neither do I. Things hadn't ever gotten to an extreme level but they could. That's what I'm afraid of, at any given moment, things could just get ugly...

The thought alone was enough to turn my speed walk into a full out sprint. I ran all the way into the automatic doors of the market, ignoring the yells and curses of people I bumped into. I turned to a clock on the wall near the registers. 6:45. Liv's party ended 15 minutes ago and the house was only 30 minutes from our house. My sister lived the closest than any of the other girls, so she was always dropped off first. This left me with 15 minutes to buy $100 worth of groceries then tote them four blocks home.

My heart raced as I threw T.V. dinners, frozen pizzas, sodas and other things to "cook" into the buggy, then checked the time once more. 6:52. With 8 minutes left. I'm flying down aisles to self-checkout.

When I left it was 7:00. I didn't bother carrying the bags. The shopping cart was doing just fine and carrying me as well as I zoomed down the sidewalk. I did make it though. The mother taking the kids home got into an "altercation" with another parent over who was being dropped off first. To avoid conflict, she brought Liv home second and I'd never been more relieved. After that, nothing else unusual happened. My mother drank with the devil himself and they argued for a while. About what? I couldn't tell. Probably over who was doing which demonic deeds to help others find the miserable parts of their lives.

I only thought that way back then because that's all they did for my sister and I. If making your children miserable was a business, my mother would be C.O.O. and James would be the president. Or, I don't really know. Look, James would be higher power is all I mean; its like he has her brainwashed or something, she just isn't the same. And together, those two are like field mines. If one explodes, it sets the other one off. Then the explosion just continues to escalate until everything is destroyed.

And just like a mine, you don't know where or when to step for fear of setting off one in just one wrong movement. Step in the wrong direction -BOOM! -game over. There is no stepping back or running from your fate. Especially when that fate, is death.