Just Our Luck | Lesbian Story

Part One

Abuse. Noun. Cruel and violent treatment of a person or animal. Verb. Use to bad effect or for a bad purpose; misuse. Synonyms include mistreatment, insult, slander, corrupt.

All of that contained in a book no one ever reads unless they have to. But a word I was all too familiar with, without even having to open the cover. There was a small dictionary stored in the shadows of my closet, hidden away as if it were some sort of valuable. In a way, I suppose that little book was. Being the last of its kind, in books anyway, my obligation was to protect its little life. So there it hides. As if it were hiding in the attic, away from the bad men, it remained.

When I was younger I remembered placing it alongside the others I had kept along with it. All small, easy to hide, but spanning from fantasy to non-fiction. Late into the night, I would read the words until the letters had burned themselves into my brain. Until I could feel the paper still caressed in my fingers long after I closed its pages. Plots and scripts that I had practically memorized and acted out as if they were a play.

This, all of it, never left the small space I called my own. Beyond these walls, no one would understand. It would be warnings to "shut up" or the reminder that I shouldn't move. Outside things had fallen into a solemn grey scale. It was dark out here. No light. Not even a small glimmer from the windows, as they had been covered to block the suns rays. In this room of quiet depression, lay the silhouette of a man I am today ashamed to admit terrified me to the very core of my being.

He shifted a little. My body stiffened. The palms of my hands had caked in a thin layer of sweat. The beat in my chest sped up but didn't overcome me. As long as I played by the rules, I would be safe. That was what I told myself every day when I left that room into this grey world. The stairs creaked as I descended, but the silhouette didn't flinch. As I crept closer, my attention turned to the television that played at a low volume. A sweet quiet only overtaken by the silhouettes snores. Having heard that purr, my body relaxed and my stomach took over. Rumbles released, but not nearly loud enough to wake the sleeping king. I turned the corner and headed for the kitchen.

This room, as you could probably imagine, was no different from the living room. Here, too, the curtains were drawn in to exile the sun from entering our home. The space was silent, save for the low snores of the man and the soft-spoken sounds of the television. I quickly found my way to the pantry to take a few snakes. The room was empty. Void of any life or furniture. In fact, had I not known for a fact this was the kitchen, it's grey walls wouldn't have convinced me. Still, the pantry was full of its usual foods from canned soup to cereal, all for the taking. Provided I didn't get caught.

Just as I reached for a can of chicken noodle soup, my body went cold. I turned. Dark eyes of villainous character glared at me. That man approached me. Each step he took stood another hair on my neck. His face was within inches of mine. So close I could smell the cigarettes and cheap colon fuming off his being. That fist of his had been raised to my face with just one blink of mine. I froze. "I'll fucking kill you." Those words echoed in my head, but he hadn't opened his mouth to speak.

"You're useless." It was his voice again, but that mouth didn't move. Suddenly hundreds of voices screamed similar messages. "Can't you do anything right? You bitch. You lazy cunt. Stupid. Asshole. Fucker. Moron. Fatie. Ugly."

I couldn't help but allow myself to shake. The man's fist had lowered to his side again. His dead grey eyes were on my green ones at last. His mouth opened. "Are you going to cry, pussy?"

"Natalie!"

I shot up. A little disoriented, I looked ahead of my bed at the source of the voice. My father, an older man with a continuing receding grey hairline, dressed in his business attire, wrapped a tie around his neck. Blinking a few times and looking out the window, I noticed to my disappointment it was the early morning.

"You have to work, don't you?" He asked. His purple paisley tie firmly around his collar. I nodded sleepily. "Then get dressed."

My body was shaking just a little. Apart from the man on the couch, remembering pieces of my childhood, and that iconic dictionary I hadn't salvaged from our time of exile, I couldn't remember much of what I had dreamed. Even after these many years, I was still dreaming nightmares of the past. Sadly I'd grown used to them. Having woken from them resulted in a few shakes until I remembered what they were all about.

I couldn't say for certain why I continued to have these dreams. My only explanation was, somehow, subconsciously I couldn't let the past go. To my relief, it didn't happen often, but dreaming of that man, of the past he created for me, always filled me with spiteful annoyance.

Before I could get yelled at again, I quickly moved to the basket of clothing on the floor and picked out a pair of jeans, a white shirt, and my shirt with the store's logo printed on the left breast. This was my life. A bakery worker, not yet gone to college, but graduated from high school, taking each day one at a time.

Classmates I had graduated with were all doing their own thing. Some had ended up in jail, so the word gets around. They were attending college, living with their older sister, working for their parent's company, pursuing a life. While here I remained. Working a part-time job that paid just two dollars above minimum wage dealing with angry customers about not being able to hear me through the glass of our bread and doughnut case. A girl with no plans for the future apart from, maybe, being able to attend college once I'd made enough money to do so. I knew, though, that wasn't going to be an easy journey.

Just my luck.

As my father and brother headed for the door, I trailed behind them, grabbing my coats to fend off the harsh Wisconsin winter, and my work hat. It was early, about an hour before I had to be at my job that was just around the corner, but it was cold and my brother had broken the car. We filed into my father's Jeep and headed down the street.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, gathering all of my belongings before shutting the door and watching him exit from the parking lot. It was less than an hour now, but more than early to be here at this store.

I walked inside and ascended the hidden stairs to the left of the card and wine section. The stairs cruelly reminded me of my dream. No, my past. My feet stopped moving forward and I thought. These stairs were metal and grey, common to see in a public building, yet they still reminded me of that carpeted one back in the dream. Suddenly another detail came back.

The kitchen. It had been gutted and bare, though I wasn't sure why. The real kitchen, the one from my memories, was a small space just big enough for our circle table to fit in the corner. There was a shag rug beneath it, something of my mother's touch. The walls were covered with pictures and art, decor. There were stickers on the wall, just above the windows whose blinds were never open. "Live. Laugh. Love." And below that, "family."

Almost as if the wall were mocking us.

Had you only walked into our house, seen the stickers on the walls with their sayings, seen the pictures of family portraits, seen the playroom stationed in the living room, seen the neatness of our organized house - you might get the wrong idea. Only beyond the surface could you see the darkness that occurred inside these walls, in this grey world, every single day.

The smacking of skin, the shattering of glass, the screams of a violent man, crying children, bangs against walls, thuds of heavy objects, wooden doors peeling and slamming - the orchestra of hate screaming a symphony. This fact, hidden underneath a facade of a loving family.