FIRE | H.S.

Chapter 10

⚠️WARNING⚠️
This chapter contains descriptions of rape. Read at your own risk.
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I hear my mom and Clyde fighting. I'm so tired of hearing them fight almost every night. If they're not fighting, it means they're both too drunk and high on whatever drug they took that night. I'm so tired of this life. It sucks.

   Sometimes they fight after drinking and I hear my mom slamming the door to their bedroom and crying. Those are the worst nights because Clyde comes into my room, pissed off as hell, and takes it out on me. He pulls me out of bed by my hair and slaps me so hard I fall to the floor. He slaps me and kicks me and punches me and pulls my hair so hard I can't believe it's still attached to my scalp.

   I hate him. He's a fucking asshole. He's a piece of shit. I wish he would just drink himself to death. I wish he would get so drunk that when he picks up the syringe he pokes the wrong vein and dies.

   Is that possible? Can you poke the wrong vein? Can you bleed out of you do?

   I wish my mom would leave his ass. He's so stupid and ugly and violent. She's always crying. She's always mad at me as if I was the one to blame for her bad choice in men. She always looks at me with resentment, as if I was the one to blame for my father leaving us. Like he was any better.

   Why can't I be like the kids at school? I'm convinced I'm the only twelve-year-old at school who's seen cocaine firsthand. I'm convinced I'm the only twelve-year-old who knows what heroin looks like and how it works. I'm especially convinced I'm the only twelve-year-old who knows how to inject heroin into someone else. Clyde made me do it once when mom wasn't in the house. Fucking Clyde.

   What kind of fucking name is Clyde anyway? It's such an ugly ass name. Clyde. His parents must have hated him. It sounds so weird when you say it.

   I hear him call my mom a "fucking bitch". I think those are the only words he knows because he's always saying them.

   I hear his boots stomping around the house and then down the hallway. He gets closer to my room.

   Not again. Please, God, not again.

   He came in two nights ago and my bruises are still getting darker. I'm still in pain.

   I see the shadow of his boots under the door, through that tiny space between the door and the floor.

   "Go away, go away, go away," I whisper, hiding under the thin blanket and hugging my lamb close to my chest.

   He opens my door and walks in, closing it behind him. Locking it.

   He never does that. He never closes the door. And most definitely he never locks it.

   I squeeze my eyes shut.

   Go away, go away, go away.

   His heavy boots get closer.

   And closer.

   And closer.

   He pulls the blanket off me. My whole body erupts in goosebumps and a chill runs down my spine.

   Go away.

   He sits on the edge of my bed, dipping it with his weight. He smells so disgusting. Like alcohol and sweat and dirt.

   I keep my eyes shut. My heart is beating so fast and I can't breathe.

   He places his hand on my shoulder and shakes me. "Open your eyes, little shit. I know you're not sleeping." His voice is heavy with alcohol. He pulls on my shoulder hard, turning me to him. I whimper.