Torn Apart but Put Together | ✔️

Stage 1 - Chapter 1: Abusive Father

I used to wake up every day to the sound of my parents screaming and arguing.

"Why'd you use all our money, Steve?!" my mom would yell.

Steve was my father.

"Why are you so mad about it? Alcohol is life! It keeps me alive! You know what happens when I'm without it," my dad would snap back.

"Well, I work three jobs so we could keep this house; you're just there, spending all the money I've worked so hard for! Do you want us to be homeless?" said my mom, raging.

Afterwards, I'd heard a thump, which I knew was my mom.

A few years ago, I had once tried to end their argument, but my dad had just stomped on me, saying that I had no right to interfere with 'adult matters.'

"Dads overpower daughters," he would say.

I've always been so jealous of those kids whose parents rarely fight and argue because they can wake up peacefully and their house doesn't look like a murder scene.

It is only then that I'd realize that the wondrous world I dreamed of wasn't what I actually lived in. In reality, I lived in what you may think of as a jail cell. Every day, I would wake up from a wonderful dream, but as my senses return, I face a huge disappointment.

I would force myself out of bed, steeling myself to face another rough day, planning a way to avoid my dad.

When I made it to the bathroom, the first thing I would see was a mirror. I looked into it; all I could see was a monster with a poor shaped body, an oval head, hands that were too big and rough, rags, and most obvious of all, the wounds caused by my dad. The wounds never seem to heal as they didn't have the time. My dad beats them again and again, every single day. I would feel like crying every time I see myself. All the other girls out in the world had perfect skin while I, to make matters even worse, had acne! Acne plus a body covered with blood makes a bloody freak!

As soon as I finished getting ready for the day and headed downstairs, I would see a tall, strong looking figure, with clothes that hadn't been washed for months and hair that desperately needed a haircut. That was my dad, standing at the end of the staircase, giving me the death stare. I would try to ignore him and walk around, but he'd hold me up by the neck fiercely and shout in my ear, "You woke up too late again!"

Then, he'd put me down and stuffed my mouth with food from who knows where with his dirty hands. His hands looked like he had been playing in mud; I almost gagged. That caused him to kick me in the stomach right while I was trying to force down the food

I'd been thinking of different plans on how to avoid him, but he would always have something to chastise me for whenever he was home, which ultimately led to all the bruises and cuts.

He would also tell my mom and I to never leave the house unless it's for school and work, but even when we told him we needed food, he would just buy a bunch of alcohol and drugs. That left us hungry most of the time, even though he didn't have a job and spent my mom's money. That reminded me of a jail cell. It was as if there were bars on the doors so we couldn't escape. We would go out secretly, but he took both house keys! Isn't that insane?! Being locked up in your own house.

He would often come back very late at night, drunk, and had a fierce look on his face.

"Why is the house so messy?! Clean it up, you stupid maid!" he would shout. 'Stupid maid' was his wife, my dear mom.

The mess was just all of his alcohol and wine bottles. There weren't enough belongings in the house to even cause a mess.

And to me, he'd say "Why aren't you asleep yet, idiot? Go, or you know what's going to happen."

I would often still be doing homework, which led to him pinning me onto the floor and beginning to hit my head with a baton. I thought for sure I'd die or at least become dumb again. Somehow, my skull never cracked; if it had, I didn't know. There was constantly a dull throb there already.

Sometimes, my mom would get abused as well; my dad would pin us both to the floor and hit our heads together at least 1,000 times a day.

One day, we figured that even though we can't go to the balcony nor open any doors, there were still the windows.

After my dad left for whatever he did during the day, my mom and I tried to break through the window and managed to succeed. We ran out into the open, delighting in the open air that didn't smell like wine.

Our happiness didn't last for long, though.

Our neighbors saw and called the cops because apparently, damaging your own home is illegal.

After the policemen arrived, he said, "All parties must be present. This includes everyone who lives in this house and everyone who reported this."

My mom, then, reluctantly called my dad and told him that he had to come home quickly.

"What's going on here?" my dad asked, confused as he walked toward us.

"Your neighbors have reported that your wife and daughter break personal property and they claim to have heard some noise of assault, coming from your house. Whatever it is, you and your family will need to pay a fine of at least $500," said the police officer, putting a hand on the gun strapped to his waist, probably because he noticed that my dad was drunk.

"Oh. I-I'm sorry, officer. Uh, I don't have that much money," my dad stammered. I could tell he had tears in his eyes, which I've never seen before, so this was peculiar to me.

"Well then, you guys must go to court on July 29th at 4:00 P.M."

We all had to agree, and there was still over three weeks until the day.

After we all went home, my dad scolded my mom and I for wasting his time and bringing him to so much trouble.

When the day came, we were asked to tell our side of the story. My dad confessed that he was on drugs but couldn't help it; my mom and I told the judge how a regular day would go for us with him around and why we tried to escape through the window.

"We were in desperate need of freedom and didn't have any other choice. We know it's wrong now, though," I cried.

Most of our neighbors were actually on our side. They knew what my dad had done; it was pretty clear that my mother and I weren't at fault, especially after they saw our expressions and cuts.

My mom also took the opportunity to get divorced with my dad. She has been thinking about divorcing him for the longest time; she had just been too scared and still loved him even though he was drunk.

My dad froze as he heard the words, "I filed for a divorce, Steve Johnson."

"I have tried to get you off your drugs and alcohol ever since you've started because I knew the consequences, but I have failed miserably. You'd hit me every time I tried. I don't want to wake up every day in absolute fear for my life anymore. I don't want to be with an abusive husband who's going to hurt my daughter and who disturbs our neighbors from their sleep. We are done and that's final," my mom said sternly and confidently.

Should I even call my dad "dad" anymore?

As Steve was sitting on the floor with his hands in his knees, he mumbled "sorry," and began weeping. I wonder how much he meant it and if he felt any remorse or regret.

The decision was made. My mom and I had had all charges taken off us, my dad would have to spend five years in prison, and my parents were officially divorced.

There was one thing I could never forgive him of, though.

Have you guys ever been in a similar situation as Charlotte (the main character)?