whispers and mutters • blasnique

Chapter Eighteen

mentions of graphic details of physical abuse

BLASTER

I spent the night waiting for daybreak; sitting beside Zild who was talking about heartbreaks, drugs and a lot of other personal topics incessantly. It was peculiar to me how a person could just completely turn into the broken glass that he is to a stranger who barely knows anything about him.

Zild's company was odd, rather.

You could say I'm not really used to half-empty cigarette boxes and late night beer gulps if it's not with a certain person that I've stared at in awe as he continues to destroy himself right in front of my eyes...

Can't get out of my head how I just turned into such a lovestruck support system that helped by a very small margin.

He was nice regardless of the countless amount of times he puffed his cigarette smoke at me. He had nice, fluffy hair; he had nice eyes and a nice pair of thin lips. I have noticed that his lower lip was slightly thicker than the top. He looked nice, overall. He dressed real nice but I don't think underneath the facade is dressed a pretty face.

I wish his heart just gets the love it deserves.

And it really is damning to know that his heart breaks every night at the thought of getting left behind in the near future.

I don't know what's going on in the complexities of his mind. I don't understand whatever he's trying to say whether it's about him being lovesick as hell or being jealous as hell when Unique hangs around with Shanne. The guy's clearly insecure.

I know that he's a good guy and all; but nonetheless I wanted to go home.

My dad would probably want to kick my face and beat me up 'til I'm crushed down to little bits of flesh when I get home. If that happens, I just honestly don't know. Besides, I'm used to this.

Somehow I kind of feel nervous whenever I decide to stand up on my own two feet; literally and figuratively. I'm afraid to wake up and figure out what form of abuse am I going to receive on this certain day; I'm afraid to be left alone and be dependent on what I have to give to myself. It makes me feel quite queasy.

Be alright, I suppose.

Perhaps sneaking out of Zild's house assuming he's already fallen drunk asleep is a wise choice of mine. Couldn't really tell the difference between foolishness and wisdom now, could I?

My heart was beating fast for sure; I couldn't feel my face 'cause everything was numbing me down and moving felt like a completely sharp pain. The adrenaline rushed at the thought of walking home to my parents probably waiting for me all wide awake. Thus, getting enraged and filled with uncontrollable anger that will eventually–and tragically–lead to physical abuse.

I fasten my pace as I walk continuously, watching my step yet still be able to nervously contemplate about what is waiting for me at home.

Is home even 'home' anymore?

'Cause I no longer feel what seems to be security that I'm supposed to feel with whatever this god forsaken place is. A place of comfort just turned out to be a place of fear and fright. All I ever wanted to hear were just the songs of the birds and the silent hums of the whistling wind that takes place whenever the only company I have is the book on my hand.

It manifested fear deep inside me and I chose to repress all those emotions until I could no longer let the pent up anger out; it sparked terror and inexplicable horrors that words could not describe.

Home's supposed to be safe, right?

Maybe it's not anymore, 'cause the moment I stepped foot inside my 'home', I felt a sharp punch that went across my face. An inexplicable pain that was incongruous to the mental disturbance that I've been feeling for the past few days.

The pain I could feel has taken over my system like a goddamn cancer cell spreading throughout a suffering and helpless patient's body. I could no longer stop the flow of tears welling in my eyes like a river that never ends. It took quite some time for me to figure out who was attempting to beat me up like a pillow that an eight-year-old punches when his parents didn't give him a toy car, then I realized it was my dad.

My vision was blurring, and it made it hard for me to see whoever this man was. I'm not surprised at all that the guy's my dad.

He grabbed me with his strong hands and pushed me against the fragile wooden wall, continuously throwing punches at me until I bled. The blood drips like a leaking sink, and I just rested flat there like a thrown-around rag doll.

His knuckles were coloured red yet he still didn't stop painting me purple. I was blue all of a sudden, mixed with purple and red all over my weak body like abstract art. I hate how I had to be his fucking canvas that he always used whenever he wanted to experiment; I was his awful piece of art that he considered his masterpiece - and it's awful how I still am.

Am I a liability?

I guess I am.

Maybe I've made such a complete nuisance of myself that my own mother just watched her fucking bitch of a husband beat the shit out of her son out.

I don't really know what's louder anymore: the profanity-laced screams that my father constantly throws at me whenever he beats me up or the voices in my head telling me to fight back. The voices reiterate how much of a weakling I am and it just makes so many things worse. 

He lets go of me; so does my body.

I couldn't do anything about it and I just keep on wondering why. Wishing I should've just fought back, there came a flame of thoughts that I'd never be able to do that. I felt like my body was going to shut down any minute.

This isn't home anymore.

This is far from home.