Four Broken Pieces

Their Beginnings

Johanna

It is bad that I wish my eyes wouldn't open? That I pray not to get up in the morning? That I cry when I wake up, cry because I'm still here?

Daddy told me that it is, said it's horrid and wicked. Told me he'll have to beat the devil out of me if I ever asked him such an unholy question again. Then told me to grab him another beer.

Ma told me it's not bad, it's idiotic. Said I must be retarded if I thought such things. Insisted I was a moron, lacking the brain cells to comprehend. Then told me to get out of her face before she beats the few remaining brain cells I have to death.

Bubba told me to sit down.

"What'cha mean ya pray not to get up in the mornin'? Is ya sayin' ya wanna die?" Bubba asked quickly while crouching in front of me and running his hand through my long, sand-looking hair. His jade green eyes stared into my storm gray ones. Polar opposites, that's us.

"I'm guess so, Bubba. I'm just so tired of being here. I'm tired of Daddy, I'm tired of Ma, I'm just so tired, Bubba," I mumbled as tears overflowed my eyes and ran down my face."

"Oh, don't cry JoJo. Everythin' is gonna be alright, just you wait and see. Imma make everythin' okay. trust me, JoJo, trust me."

And I did. That was my biggest mistake. Because Bubba was ten times more broken the Ma, Daddy, and me put together. Bubba was the devil's worker, Daddy would say. Bubba was moronic, lacking those brain cells, Ma would grumble. Daniels "Bubba" Rogers was depressed, bipolar, and had multi-personality disorder. Dr. Marks would persist. Bubba was a wolf in sheep's clothing and he was a monster to everyone in his wake.

Including me.

Phillip

There was a crash. Then a bang. A thud. A string of curses, mostly cunts. A sobbing, then a hiccuping, then a wailing.

I stood in my closet, behind the few things on hangers and the mountain of shoeboxes that had consumed the floor long before it was my room. I stood holding the kitchen knife I stole three days prior. I stood and sobbed.

This wasn't the first time my mother's boyfriend got drunk and beat her. Not the first time he broke everything breakable. Nor the first time he called her all those awful names. He would be coming upstairs soon, coming to my room, coming for me.

He would swear and threaten, "Get your little fag ass out here, Phil. Get here right fuckin' now or I'll beat your teeth in." Then he would break some shit, act like he's searching but he's just really trying to scare me. Then comes the promises, "If you come out, I promise not to hit you. I promise I just wanna talk Phil. Just come out." Then there would be a long pause, nothing but heavy breathing and the sobs of his mother still on the floor downstairs. Then he'd find me, since he knew where I was along. "I gave you a chance Phil, now I got to punish you." And off would come his belt, I would get my beating, which truly didn't hurt. Then he would push me onto the bed and take off my belt. And everything was pure pain after that.

I heard the creaks on the stairs, my mom begging from the first floor. I held the knife, my knife, tighter. 

The door to my room creaked open, louder the ever. His heavy boots stomped on my floor, seeming to shake everything.

"Come on, Phil, I don't wanna play today." Calvin Edgar Jones, my mother's boyfriend and our abuser, said. his voice shook me to my core. My palms began to sweat and my heart pounded.

That's how it happened before but that's not how this is going to happen now.

Never again.

Rose

"I'm going, Pig!" My mother yelled from the door, "I'm doing a double at work and I'll be back late. Your dinner's in the fridge. Love you bunches." And the door slammed, the lock locked, and the house was quiet. 

I sighed and rolled out of bed. I stumbled into my bathroom and ran my arm along the wall, searching for the switch. The light flooded the room, blinding me for a second. 

When I could see again, all I saw was myself. I wore nothing but a sports bra and underwear, revealing my pale, thin body. My disgusting pale, thin body. My eyes met mine in the mirror. My eyes were sunken in with dark bags underneath. I looked disgusting, like a monster.

I walked over to the sink, trying my best not to look in the mirror. Trying not to look at the monster.

I opened up the medicine cabinet, the mirror no longer showing me the monster. 

Now in front of me was rows and rows of pill bottles. They all glow orange, begging for me to open them, take those pills, feel all better.

My mouth started watering, begging for the fix. Wanting the candies in the pill bottles, wanting my vitamins. 

I grabbed one, took off the cap, shook three into my hand. I popped them in my mouth and swallowed them dry.

I was going to put the bottles back, I promise I was. But the pills looked so good, looked so helpful. And they promised happy times. 

So I swallowed the rest, threw it back like a shot. After a bit, I felt the warmth raising in my belly.

Then I opened the next bottle.

Johnthan

Cheers. Congrats. Good jobs. Roaring from the fans, stomping and clapping and screaming. Slaps on the backs, hugs and kisses. A trophy and title. 

All to the opposite team.

It was the last game of the season, the winner takes all. A chance to prove it wasn't a mistake, that we were winners. That I was a winner.

And I dropped the fucking ball.

Everyone keep saying it wasn't my fault, that the rain made everything slippery. That they should have called the game, do a tie-breaker on a better weather day. But I know they're all pissed, mad that I fucked it all up.

Coach told me that you'll win some and you'll lose a shit ton. Just not to give up and learn from the loses. To go shower because I smelled like a bag of rotting onions.

Coach told the other guys there would be tryouts for a new quarterback since Johnny can't keep his hands on the fucking ball. To go get going, that Johnny needs to sit in his own shit for awhile.

And they all laughed, finding my failure a joke. Then they came in the locker room, grabbed their shit, and left. Laughing the whole. Damn. Time.

I can't go home, Dad told me if I lost then there's no point. Told me I was a mistake if I couldn't win the big game.

Well, I won't be losing anymore. I won't lose ever again. And they'll all be cheering my name.

I might not be able to catch, but I do know how to shoot.

Winning point for Johnny.