The dim light cast by the moon of midnight glistened off my eternally stained, metallic friend. As both it and I lay in silence, my house is filled with the screams of a beautiful, young mother who has been bound to this torture by her brusque husband who had fallen victim to the addiction of alcohol. As my quivering hands stay pressed to my aching ears every night, the thick liquid streams down my arms from the brand new wounds that now cover up the scars of previous nights spent alone in my room.
As the sun finally begins to rise the sounds of my parents fighting subside; not all at once, but over an extended period of time. The second the voices die down to my mother's pained weeping and my father's intoxicated snores, my hands rip themselves from my numb ears. At first it takes me a moment to comprehend the severity of this situation, seeing as I had once again shut myself away from the pain that I feel both physically and mentally. Once my head was back on straight, I opened the door to my bedroom and peered out to see only the flashing light of the television making it's way into view. I quickly close my door, shutting myself away until I feel that I am able to speak to my now injured mother.
As I try my damnedest to settle down, I wrap a blanket around my bare shoulders. The friction of the material against my most recent flesh wounds causes a pained gasp to fall out from between my pale lips that have been torn open one time too many by my own clenched teeth. The gross gasp of discomfort quickly fades into the annoying silence of running electronics and my own soft inhales and exhales.
Before I can even shut my heavy eyelids, the alarm goes off in it's overly monotone manner. My numb fingers slowly hit the button to stop the continuous tone once my exhausted mind registers the symbolical sound. Despite my want and need to close my weary eyes and disconnect myself from the harsh reality, my legs lift me up, off the bed, and my fingers let the cloth slip down, caressing my thin frame, until it's back on my bed.
I place pants on my long legs, a shirt to embrace my chest, and a sweatshirt over my marred arms. Once my pale, thin frame is covered, I go to leave. My feet stop in their tracks as I catch the morning rays glistening brightly off my only friend; my one and only switchblade. I stare down at the metallic weapon that is encrusted in dry crimson when I hear the quick tapping of rushed footsteps. Automatically, my hand shoots forward, gripping the open tool in my palm as my bedroom door brusquely flies open. I grimace as the blade sinks into my hand at the audaciousness of the door connecting with the wall.
As my mother explains the escape plan I feel warm liquid run down my folded fingers, dripping onto the hardwood only after losing it's grip on my knuckles. The young woman in front of me is so hysterical that she doesn't seem to notice the pain hidden on my face or the continuous leak of my vital fluid behind my back.
Seconds later, she's running off to her room to gather her clothes and minimal belongings. As she does so I hastily pocket my only source of comfort, wiping up my hand and the splatters of red on the floor before doing the same as my green-eyed mother. I pack my few outfits and treasured items before my mom is dragging me out of the house that held both many good and bad memories for us all.
The one who has raised me randomly pulls me into the vehicle of soft blue and she then quickly starts the engine, driving off to any place that may offer solace.
After falling asleep to the feeling of being in a safe vehicle and not having to go to school the next day, I was blessed with surprisingly good dreams for once in my hellish life. This slumber somehow brings forth a beautiful warmth in my chest and causes a rare, upward curve of my lips. My mother must have noticed my soft smile due to her commenting to herself on my uncommon expression.
"I haven't seen that smile in a while," she giggled softly, not caring if my state was still one of the unconscious or one of the awake and living. "I was truly beginning to worry," she let out a sigh of relief before continuing her rambling. After a while I quit the charades, noticing that our car had come to a long, final stop. My eyes flickered opened slowly, connecting with the old building with disgustingly rusty, metal steps, and ancient, graffiti-ed brick.
