Short Stories

Broken

***TRIGGER WARNING***

This short story deals with the topic of abuse, physical abuse and substance abuse. So if these are sensitive topics for you, I highly recommend that you avoid reading this piece.

I would also like to say that I understand not all cases of abuse are like this, as this short story is just a work of my imagination.

***

He always says that it's my fault that mother's dead. That if I wasn't born everything would still be perfect. I know that that isn't true though. Whenever I get let out, usually to buy more things for him, I always catch them talking about us. How we don't look, think, dress or act the way they do.

Today's a dreadful day. It's a Friday so he stays home for the weekend. Normally he'd be out drinking whatever he could find. Wouldn't come back for days. I've always assumed that he hangs out with whatever friends he has. But those moments were times of peace. He would bring back a bottle or two for the weekends sometimes. That means he can get drunk without anyone seeing what he does to me. He's always yelling though, lucky for him we don't have neighbours.

He should have been back here hours ago. I don't know why I expected differently, he's always late. I stepped out of my "room", ascended the basement stairs and headed for the kitchen. I needed to make something for him before he came home or who knows what else he would do to me. Maybe he would just forget about me. Getting neglected would be so much better than what he puts me through. Or maybe he wouldn't come home at all. The amount of times I've hoped for that is sickening.

My thoughts were interrupted by the slam of the door. The bang of the wooden structure resonated throughout the house and it felt like the cheap infrastructure would collapse on top of me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want that. The sound shook me and the plate that was held in my hands fell to the floor smashing into little pieces. The pang of fear that rushed through me sent a shiver down my spine. I knew he wouldn't forgive me. He never does. The footsteps came to a sudden halt and started up again a few seconds after they had initially stopped. The stomp of each boot hitting the tile floor made the bruises that he gave me more apparent. It was like they were pulsing with his presence.

His towering figure came to stand in the doorway of the messy kitchen. He took a small step towards me, the slow crunch of the pieces of the broken plate made me flinch and take a step backwards. His large body covered the doorway, which prevented me from escaping. I glanced at him quickly, our eyes meeting. It seemed like his eyes darkened in anger under the dull yellow hue emitting from the bulb. His gaze pierced through me, it was like he was looking into my soul, taking every piece of hope I had left and ripping it up all over again. Making me watch. He stared at me like I was a piece of gum stuck on the underside of his boot. Hatred, disgust and regret swirled within his dark irises. My gaze swung downwards to his fists; the same ones that beat and pulled at me, they were clenched and as I continued to stare, I swear his body shook in rage.

Rage towards me. His little sister.

***

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