Dark

Hi people! This is just a little short story so yeah.

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Vaguely, I know I am now awake. I hear faint voices, but I am shut in darkness. My head throbs. I take in a deep breath, let it out, then open my eyes to see...nothing. Still the same pitch black. Mabye I didn't open my eyes properly. I reach up, touching the tips of my fingers to my eyelashes. My eyes are wide open. Why don't I see anything? Mabye its dark in here.

I hear my frantic breath. In, out, in, out. Now whats the last thing I remember? It takes a while to come to my confused mind, but I get it in the end. My father in his drunken stupor, stumbling towards me, empty beer bottle raised above his head. I put my hand up again, this time to feel the top of my head. My fingers touch rough gauze, and I relax a little. I'm in the hospital with a head injury, I probably got hit on the head by the bottle. No big deal.

I try opening my eyes again, but all I see is darkness. I don't get what's going on. In, out, in, out. I unconsiously keep track of my breath.

I'm about to get out of bed when the door opens, whisking air against my face. I hear the tap-tap of shoes against the floor, and I can tell its a man walking towards me. The footsteps are deliberate and steady. I'm elated to hear it. It can't be my father. He's always drunk and stumbling.

"Megan Alaster?" The man's voice is curt and polite.

"Yes?" I say. My voice sounds hoarse and raw, the result of being throttled. My fingers brush past my cheek, touching half-faded bruises from the time he slapped me. That had been just before school, so I ended up going into the classroom with a red palmprint on my cheek. Back than, I actually had friends, and they had asked about it. I had brushed it off as nothing. I mean, it really was nothing. In the beginning, I felt the pain, but over time I got used to it. Now getting hit for something or another is part of my daily routine.

I faintly hear the man rustling around the room. In what I judge is a minutes, his footsteps approach again.  

"I'm Dr.Roth," he says. I have no idea what to say about that, so I stay quiet and he continues.

" What happened to you?" he asks.

"What?" I ask him. "Nothing happened." In my eyes, it is nothing. I just got hit, what's the big deal?

Dr.Roth repeats his questions. "We found you slumped against the wall, and your father was crying. He thought you were going to die. He's the one who called us."

I laugh, for the first time in months. "Yeah right. He was probably freaked out that if I died, he would be tagged as a murderer. What other impossible stuff is happening? Is it raining gummy bears?"

A hint of impatience enters Dr.Roth's voice when he speaks. "Young lady, this is no time to fool around. Who attacked you? What actually happened?"

I can feel a smirk cross my face. "Wait a minute," I say, feeling an urge to laugh. This all seems like a lame joke."I'm serious. My dad drinks, like, all the time. He is drunk all the time. And he definitely is the person who 'attacked' me." I'm on a roll now. It frightens me a little that I can't see who it is that I'm ranting to, but I go on.

"He likes punching, throttling, and throwing things at people. I'm his favorite victim. That bandage I have wrapped around my head? He smashed a beer bottle probably five minutes before he called you. Those bruises on my face? He slaps that hard. The scar across my cheek? He likes throwing knives. He absolutely, completely detests me."

There's a pause of a few minutes following my rant. The Dr.Roth says," You can talk to a pyshciatrist later about this. You have a visitor."

"A visitor?" I ask. I can't imagine even caring enough about me to visit me in a hospital.

I feel air against my skin again, informing the door is open again. 

"Oh, honey, what did he do to you?!"

"Mom?" I ask tentatively. The last time I heard that voice was when I was ten, just after my parents had gotten divorced. Dad was supposed to send me to her every summer, but he didn't, saying he didn't have enough money. I snorted grimly, remembering it. All the money he did have, he probably spent it on beer. And greasy nachos.

I feel arms around me. I relax against her, smelling her familiar perfume, like a cloud around her. Sandalwood. Its been four year since I smelled it. It comforts me.

"Mom, what's going on?" I ask. I slow down to consider the facts. Headache. Nothingness. I can hear Dad's voice snarling in my head. 

'So you want to paint, don't you. You dirty little piece of crap! I would have thrown you out on the streets long, except for the money you're bringing in from that damned government. I've heard handicapped children bring in more money...'

I curled up, unnerved by a new thought. "Mom, am I..."

I desperately want her to say no, but she sighs and confirms it.

"You're blind."