Some Scars Don't Heal

Fifteen - That Moment When I Realise How Lucky I Am

The door swung and I was pushed into a vivid purple coloured room. A metal bed was at the end of the room, the ceiling was plastered in posters of the Rolling Stones and Queen. I recognised them because they were my dad's favourite bands. A girl was sat at the end of the bed, hugging her knees. Maria went over and gently tapped her in the small of her back.

"Wendy? Wendy, love, I've got someone who wants to meet you." The girl twisted around slowly, revealing a pale face with a nose ring, and long straight blonde hair. I gasped, and she scowled, her hands going to her stomach. She was pregnant, and only a year older than me.

"I'm so sorry," I apologised immediately. Wendy shrugged.

"It's an immediate reaction. But don't judge me, at least not until you know the full story."

"I won't." I promised. Maria walked over to me.

"Girls, I'm going to leave you alone. Wendy, you'll take care of Becky won't you?" Wendy nodded the affirmative, and Maria strode out of the room, closing the door behind her. Cautiously, I tiptoed over to Wendy's bed and sat on it. Wendy watched me, her dark eyes inpenetrable.

"First of all, can I just say, I'm nothing like my parents. I passed my GCSE English Literature and Language two years early, both A*. I'm doing two English courses and have already got my Masters degree." Wendy bragged. I nodded, then my eye caught onto something.

"Hey," I leant forward to the book Wendy had been holding. It was called Through My Eyes - a domestic horror by Wendy Shipman. I glanced up at her.

"That's you, right?" I asked. Wendy nodded.

"Wow. My friend was raving about that book, I read a bit of it." I told her, awestruck.

"You didn't get down to the gory bits though, did you?" she guessed.

"No," I felt my stomach turn, and wondered if I should still be listening to this.

"Well, you're about to hear them." Wendy chuckled humourlessly, took a deep breath and began.

"On a Saturday morning my mother left with £250 in her purse. It was every penny she had saved for months for our Christmas toys and food. She returned in the early evening. In her single shopping bag was a frying pan. She had £1 left in her purse. She could not explain where the rest of the money had gone. My father beat her senseless.

First he slapped her in the face, forcing her head to swing violently, as if her neck was made from string. "What did you do with my money?" he screeched, the spit spraying from his mouth. She looked at him, drunk.

"He kicked her up and down our dingy little living room, his face crimson with fury. I watched through my fingers from the corner, begging him to stop. I was eight years old.

A couple of years later, when my mother was seven months pregnant with my younger brother, she arrived home from another shopping excursion. This time she had bags of goodies. As soon as she opened her mouth I knew she was drunk. I also knew I had to do something. My father would be back in half an hour.

"I made her a cup of tea, sat her down in front of the TV, woke her up when she appeared to be nodding off. Then he came home. At first, at the sight of the shopping bags, it seemed as if he might overlook her condition. Then he realised no supper had been prepared.

"A beating occured, so bad that the next day her face was so bruised I didn't recognise her. I told Anne, my six-year-old sister, that our mother was ill and was not to be disturbed. Anne diligently avoided my parents' bedroom.

"Brian was born a few days after Christmas, five weeks early and weighing just a few pounds. We all knew, but never said out loud, that the beatings were partly to blame.