How I Killed The Andersons

Early Mornings

I lay awake silently in my stiff twin bed on another average, October morning. I check my alarm clock. 6:54. I must have stayed up again. I curse at myself under my breath and close my eyes. The air in my room is stale, and frigid. Opening my eyes again, I can see the dark grey sky outside my small cracked window, open just enough to let a cool breeze flow in my room like a river.
My lips are chapped. I inhale a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I lick my lips for a moment and spread the warm moisture around. I begin to regain feeling in my body, and my head stops spinning for a moment as I sit up against the dull walls of my room. Everything is so calm. I begin to ponder, maybe today will be a good day.

I divulge my warm body from my grey comforter. I rub my eyes and slowly run my hand through my long, dark hair. I scratch the back of my head and swiftly slide my feet off my bed to the hardwood floor. Moving a noticeably dirty shirt off the floor, I grab two mixed matched ankle socks that look clean and slide them onto my small feet. I limp over to the grimy mirror on my door, and look intently into the mirror. I lock eyes with the person I hate most in this shitty world, and attempt to push down the wrinkles out of his black t-shirt. You look miserable today Dan, I think to myself as I walk over to the edge of my bed and grab a pair of black slim jeans. They're still damp. I slide the cold and damp fabric up my lower body and shiver. I throw my tattered, dark blue backpack over my shoulder. It's heavy, but that's alright. I step out my room, and into the deplorable hall. An average day for me.

I walk into the poorly lit bathroom and a pungent smell invades nose.  I set my bag down, and cautiously sneak by the dirty sink, smashed mirror, and over a puddle of, what I think is water. I stare blankly at the peeling wallpaper and moulded corners of the room. My hygiene can wait I suppose, this is disgusting. As I go to leave the bathroom, my mind had been totally blank, I forgot and slipped in that unknown substance spread across my tile floor. Sprawled across the floor, I finally begin to breathe in the cloudy air and I can tell what I'm laying in. Water.

I scurry from the ground and rub my head. Who spills this much water on the floor and doesn't bother to clean it? Oh that's right, literally everyone in this goddamned house but me. Suddenly, my train of thought was torn apart by the large stomps echoing in the hall outside. I must have awoken Scott, one of my mom's weekly boyfriends, when I fell. Fuck. He comes into the room with a deep grunt and looks at me with his hatred-fuelled eyes, piercing my body like a million needles, and staring at my soul as if he was Death himself. His tall, muscular build barely fits into his tight and booze stained clothes. He's wearing ripped blue jeans and a wife beater. Ironic isn't it? His hairy hands are clenched and so are his coffee stained teeth. I can smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath from four feet away. He's smashed, like always.

"Do you know what time it is Dan? Huh? Do you?"

Yeah you fucking giant. 7:03 AM, on the dot. I decide to play dumb to avoid too many hits today. I'm not feeling well and I don't need that spinning sensation to return.

"No." I whisper, as I wring out my wet shirt.

"It's 7:04" He stammers. I'm surprised he can tell the time. "If you ever wake me up this early again, I'll do what I did last time you really pissed me off."

I prepared for the hit. I closed my eyes and attempted to plant my feet. It was no use. He shoves me back into the bathtub and I fall hard to the floor once again. He stomps me with his large, leather work boot. The feeling is like a sledgehammer, caving in my chest and puncturing all my organs. After about four or five good kicks, he spits on me and storms out angrily. I lay crying on the cold floor. I can't open my eyes. I can't feel my legs, or torso, the only thing I can feel is my head spinning. After slowing my breathing and collecting most of my rational thoughts, I pull myself up to the edge of the counter. I gaze into the mirror, and swing open the medicine cabinet. Hydrocodone Acetaminophen. Pain meds from when I- when Scott broke the fingers on my left hand. Unscrewing the top, I drop two tablets into my hand, and bring them to my mouth. I swallow and feel then slide down my dry throat. I set my nearly empty bottle back behind the false wall I had put there last month to hide from the thieves my mom brings home occasionally, and close the shattered cabinet. I dust myself off, check out the three new bruises upon the canvas that is my skin, and walk to the front hall for my shoes.

I quietly slip on my burgundy vans from inside the closet, and a full black zip up hoodie, to match my entire black outfit. My hands naturally glide into my pockets and I dig around. There's my phone, headphones, and a five dollar bill I stole from my mom on Monday, for this weeks lunch. Without this money and the free food from a breakfast club at my school  I'd probably starve to death.

I step out of my second story apartment and make my way down the sketchy hallways of my complex. the air is thick, and smells of pot. I walk slowly  past the laundry machine, around the corner, and down the steep, rickety steps. I take a stride out the heavy glass door to the outside world. It's raining. Maybe today won't be so bad after all. I like rain. It seems to clear my mind of negative thoughts... and it's true only time I can cry in public. I walk the uneven sidewalk towards my high school and look up. I begin to cry. I think about the last hour, and I begin to ponder, maybe tomorrow will be a good day.