Sleeves

Chaper 1

 

I hear the door slam shut and cringe at the sound. He’s home.

                I walk slowly to the kitchen, making sure that everything is ready for dinner. I’m not sure what state he will be in when he enters, so I brace myself and prepare for anything.

                “Shit!” I hear his yell as he stumbles through the entryway, hitting his heavy body parts on this and that.

                Drunk. Tonight is going to be rough.

“Hey dad,” I murmur, not looking up. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe he’s just upset.

“Where’s my food, you lazy brat?” he roars, grabbing my arm so hard I know there’ll be bruises.  The smell of alcohol overwhelms our small kitchen.

“Dad, its right here, see?” I gesture to the meal set out on the counter, hoping desperately to distract him.

“You call this a meal?!” He screams, wiping all the food and plates off the table, onto the floor. I lean down and try to pick them up, but then I see his foot flying towards my face and know it’s useless. I will be black and blue tomorrow.

I wake up, back in my bed, aching everywhere. Last night, once he was finished with me, I crawled upstairs and tried to fall asleep. I don’t even bother to cry anymore, it makes no difference.

I sigh and pull myself from the bed, and mentally begin to prepare myself for another day of school.

I start changing but stop to stare at my naked body in the mirror. There are more bruises than skin. Purple, blue, black, green, yellow, my body wears them all. Old and new.

This has been going on for over a year, right after mom died. It seemed like I had the perfect life, great parents, and loving friends. But then my mother was diagnosed with heart cancer and given two months to live. She barely made it two weeks.

I remember driving home from the funeral with my father, neither one of us speaking. He dropped me off at home then went to the bar. He came home late that night and dragged me from my bed, cursing and screaming the whole way. He blamed me for my mother’s death, though I couldn’t figure out why. I missed her just as much as he did. He gave me my first beating and I cried myself to sleep. This is the monster that I know now.

I sigh and turn away from the mirror to the limited choices of my closet. Even though we live in Southern California where you can wear shorts in the dead of winter, I throw on jeans and a black turtleneck. It makes me stick out more than I would like, but showing my scars would be a fate infinitely worse.

I slowly pull my door open and tiptoe down the hall. There, in the middle of the kitchen, my father lies, dead asleep. I gently step over his body and run for the door, hoping he will not wake before I can escape.