Suffocating

Home

   The day went by very slowly after that, but I liked it that way. It meant it would take longer to come to my house.

I didn't like to call it my "home" because it just wasn't one. A home is where you're supposed to feel welcome and comfortable, and I definitely don't. My house is roughly 10 blocks away from my high school, and I've been walking to and from the two for as long as I could remember. When I turn 16, I will be able to get a car, but I will probably still walk. There is no rush to get home.

After almost 1.5 miles of cracked sidewalk, birds chirping, and thoughtful thinking, I reached my house. It is two levels high, with the worst painting job of a pale yellow I've ever seen. I just paced myself up to the porch, and took a deep breath before stepping inside. I quickly and quietly closed the screen door behind me, and began to tip-toe my way towards my room upstairs. If I could just close the door before-

And that's when my sad excuse of a father stumbled down the stairs, holding two beer bottles in his hands. He had obviously been drinking for a while, almost blackout drunk. Almost.

My father was probably trying to get into my room, as he sometimes did by habit when he was drunk, only to find it locked (as it often is). He didn't seem to notice my presence, and he tripped on a single stair (Where did that come from?), therefore plummeting to the ground and laughing in the process. Being the good person that I am, I lunged myself onto the staircase, not helping him up.

I know, I know, I sound like a terrible person, but if you only knew what he put me through, you would understand.

My "room" is a tiny attic with one bay window on one far end. I have several posters of bands and movies that I've been lucky enough to acquire throughout my life. I had a queen-sized bed which I had received from my mother. The house actually does have two bedrooms, but my father is using the other one as a wine cellar.

I knew that my father was going to come up when he got up from the floor and I had to prepare myself.

My father can be two very different types of drunks. He can be the  tired drunk (which I preferred) or, the angry/emotional drunk, who hits everything in his path. I hoped it was the first.

From hiding my book bag underneath my bed, taking down my posters, and locking the door, you could tell I knew the drill. I sat, curled up in a ball on my bed. He would soon realize that I'm upstairs, and that's when he would come. I couldn't risk not being ready.

10 minutes later, he pounded on the door. "Annabelle," he said burping, "open this door right this minute or so help you-" I opened the door. I couldn't take it anymore.

Right then, as I stood before him, waiting for what was to come, he hit me. Hard.

He was angry drunk. I knew he shouldn't be drunk in any kind of harmful way, but I was thankful that it wasn't like some of the horrible sexual predator nights I had faced in the past.

He made me cower into the corner, as he hit me over and over. This continued for several minutes. "Bruises heal." I said to myself over and over. I was going to need a lot of makeup tomorrow. Tears streamed from my eyes, as he criticized me. "Come on, slut! Aren't you gonna f- fight back?" He yelled, burping in the process.

"Ugly, ugly, ugly..." He said each time he hit me. "I can't help being ugly." I whispered in response. He paused out of pure rage. "What did you say, whore? Are you back talking me?" I closed my eyes and whimpered, "N- No." He took his belt out of his loops. "I sure hope a slut like you wouldn't dare! But just in case you did, let's show who the boss is here." And then he whipped me with his belt. 46 times, I counted. He took one last swig of his beer, and then promptly fainted onto the ground.

I slowly lifted my hands from shielding my eyes. There he was, laying in a puddle of alcohol and shards of glass, and I just didn't care. I stayed where I was, unable to move. Tears flooded my eyes like Niagra Falls and I cried and cried for hours, unable to stop the pain coming from the whipping marks. No matter how many times my father beat me, I was never able to cope with it.

When I could finally get up, I used all of my aching body's energy to pull him out of my room. I dragged him down the stairs and left him there.

There is no mercy in the household anymore.