Guardians and Angels

Chapter 4: Rapunzel

My face had become swollen and discolored from the plethora of slaps across my face. Each blow stung like wasps pricking my cheek or someone hammering nails into the side of my face. I had tears staining my skin but this didn't seem to stop her as she continued to strike her hand across my face until I learned my lesson.

"Please stop, please," I cried out.

Something was tingling under my nose and I unconsciously wiped my hand under the area. To my horror, blood was pouring from my nose and staining the carpet underneath me. I'll have to scrub that down later, I thought to myself.

And the worst part of it all was the spectator in the room. Her creep of a boyfriend was casually leant up against the wall, watching my abuse unravel before him as though it were his favorite comedy show. He brought another bottle of beer to his smirking lips and chuckled darkly under his breath. He never laid a hurtful hand on me, unlike other people have, but he was still as abusive and frightening as them. He would yell and scream with a thunderous voice, or stare at me like a prized piece of meat. His eye-rapings soon became subtle touches and seductive whispers in my ear that'd sent the worst waves of fear to wash over me.

My attention was no longer on the dark, shadowy man in the corner, but instead a pain that shot in my head. Perfectly manicured hands had found their grip onto my hair and I was suddenly being dragged up the stairs. My head felt as though she were ripping my hair out of my scalp and replacing them with needles that stabbed my skull whenever I moved. Her grip was tight as she flung me onto my floor with a sharp throw.

"You were suppose to be home 5 minutes ago!" Her face was several inches away from me and I could clearly smell the vodka coating her breath.

Another hard slap was flung at me, making my cheek even more swollen than it already was. "I'm s-s-sorry," I stuttered.

This didn't seem to please her enough, "Don't be sorry, be right." She gave me one last piercing glare and stormed out of my room, leaving me hurt and alone on my bedroom floor.

This routine hasn't changed in years. Same punishments, same harsh words, same scars, and the same broken outcomes. My punishments for being late were either no food, no sleep, or more beatings, and I dreadfully awaited to find out which of those it would be tonight. When the sound of my door locking was heard, I was certain my food privileges were taken away.

After sitting on the floor and wallowing in pity for several minutes, I finally gathered enough strength to get up and make my way to the bathroom connected to my room. What I saw in the mirror literally took my breath away.

Red, puffy eyes stared back at me with a broken gaze hidden in them. Blood was smeared underneath a girl's nose, and on both sides of this her face was a bright pink coloring that stained an inflamed cheek. I felt sorry for the owner of the reflection and wished that I could reach out and help her, but there was nothing I could do.

I touched my cheek and saw the reflection do the same action as me. I flinched at the touch and decided to put a cold rag on it to cool down the inflammation. I knew that by morning the swelling would have gone down and I'd be back to normal--well, as normal as I could be. I guess I shouldn't complain, I've had worse punishments.

Since I was locked in my room with nothing to do, I decided to turn to another distraction I had acquired. I grabbed a sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing.

Art was a great distraction for me. I could get lost in an overflow of color and creativity while also ponder on whatever seemed to be bothering me. This gave me a productive way of coping with the abuse I face everyday and it cleared up my mind. I enjoyed the feeling of a pencil or paintbrush in my hand and letting my imagination guide my extensions into making beautiful and intricate pictures.