Fighter

CHAPTER 1 - Intro

“Ugh, I hope he’s asleep. God knows how much alcohol the man’s consumed,” I said under my breath as I stepped as quietly as possible into my apartment and furtively shut and locked the back door. I tipped toed up the stairs and peeked into the living room. A sigh of relief escaped my lips. My father lay sprawled across the couch, fast asleep, with an empty beer bottle, curiously still firmly gripped in his rough hands. “Wow he snores like a dying pig!” I thought as his ferociously loud snorts made my ears bleed.

I was thinking of how I got away with this one when I tripped on, you guessed it, an old beer bottle. That woke him up. Talk about jinxing it.

He was fuming and yelling some, not so nice words at me.

“Dad! Please! Stop!” Remember that old beer bottle he had gripped in his hand, yeah? Well, he was about to hurl it at me.

Ok, wait, let’s back up a bit. You might be wondering why my own father would be throwing a glass bottle at me, his only daughter. That’s an easy question to answer. He was drunk. When he is drunk, which is all the time, he hits, kicks and I’ve even had a few beer bottles thrown at me, like what he’s about to do now.

He gets mad at me for the silliest things, from watching Barney (don’t ask) to getting home late, like tonight. Usually it’s because I’m hanging out with my best friend Nick or going to the underground Manhattan clubs (I live in Brooklyn so I always get home late if I go to Manhattan, stupid New York traffic), but tonight I was at my mixed martial arts championship. I can proudly say that I, Kristen Santiago (please call me Kris, call me anything else and my hand will meet your face) whipped all of their sorry butts to next year. YUP! First place baby! Nick did pretty well too. He came second in overall. I’M SO PROUD.

You probably want to know who Nick is. Well, he’s my best friend since, about, my whole life. It was actually he, who got me into MMA. It was a week after I told him about my dad; this was when I was about thirteen. He thought the classes would help me defend myself against my dad if things got to out of hand (and for me, out of hand is NOT throwing glass bottles at me, I wish it was), such a sweetheart. Eventually the defense classes evolved into something more. I ended up actually being good at it and I found that I really loved it. It’s also a good way to let off steam. I mean if I want to punch somebody, I might as well punch a punching bag, that’s what they’re there for.

Oh, and another thing you might want to know is that the reason my father dearest (please note sarcasm) is like this, you know all drunk and aggressive, is because my mom died when I was four and he was overcome with grief. And it doesn’t help that I remind him of her. Honestly it’s quite pathetic if you ask me. I mean it’s been thirteen years, you would think that the man had gotten over it by now. That’s right, I’m seventeen and a junior in high school. Only one more year to get out of this hellhole that is my home.

I hardly remember my mom. Only glimpses of what happened. There was a car, and an explosion followed by my dad’s horrible screams. I’m sure you can put the puzzle pieces together.

It’s funny. My dad wasn’t always an abusive drunk. Only when I actually started looking like my mom did it start. So around twelve, when puberty struck. And let me tell you, the years have been very kind to me. You’ll hear more about that later in the story.

And I really do look a lot like my mom. I saw some pictures of her my dad had hidden away in the attic somewhere. We had the same dark, wavy hair, same hazel eyes, heart shaped lips, same slim figures, heck, and we even had the same exact noses. So in other words if she was alive and a teenager we could pass as twins. That is not an exaggeration.

 And now that you’ve all been caught up about my life, let’s get on with the story.

Where were we, oh, right…. “Please! Dad! Stop!” He was about to hurl that stupid bottle at me. And, surprise! (Again, sarcasm) he hurled it at me. Thank God for my good reflexes. I dodged the bottle that was aimed at my head. It shattered on the wall behind me. I ran around my father quickly and dashed into my room and I quickly locked the door. He was probably out there, disoriented from all the chemicals in his system trying to look for me. His poor brain simply couldn’t keep up. And you know what’s extra sad. I didn’t even run. I sort of just, speed walked.

You would think my heart was pumping with adrenaline, but honestly, I’ve gotten used to it over the years. Normal routine for you, for being late is probably a lecture or getting grounded. This is normal routine for me. And you thought your parents were strict.