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blondemoment22

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Note: I'm trying a new type of story, this is about domestic abuse.

I wrote it in 6th grade, it was kind of a channel for all my pain (but not abuse, I've never been in that situation) over feeling so alone & rejected by my peers. It's undergone some editing since then. Tell me what you think.

"Dawn!" my dad bellowed, his alchoholic voice shaking with hiccups. I swore under my breath and crept carefully into the living room, my head bowed low toward the dirty, stained carpet.

    I like to think my name has hope, like my life will have a new dawn soon and this will all be over. That new dawn is graduation, but it's so far away, two years away. 

    "Where have you been?!" he yelled. I could just barely understand it for the slurring of the words. I glanced up, but averted my eyes again; his face was purple in a drunken rage.

    "The subway was very crowded," I explained.

    "Bull shit!" he shouted at me, knocking his head against the wall as he stumbled toward me. "Don't make up--the lies, don't make it up!"

    "I'm only five minutes late." I immediately regretted my words, and the tone of my voice. I knew for sure I would be hurt now. I deserved it too.

    "What did you ... j'you say?!" His murky hazel eyes were completely glazed over. 

    "I'm sorry, it won't happen again," I choked out. Tears started to brim up around the edges of my eyes.

    "Yer...Damn right it won't!" He unbuckled his belt. "And you know why?"

    I was silent.

    Then it came. The belt clipped my arm, tearing at the bruise that was already there, the one I'd lied to everyone about being from getting hit by a door at school. I bit my tongue to hide weakness, but a quiet whimper escaped.

    Another strike hit my leg and stung. I stumbled back a step, looking pleadingly at my mother. She hid her face behind her Better Homes and Gardens magazine and sunk lower into the chair.

    Dad was walking slowly toward me, swaying side to sdie. He reached back to hit me again and I turned and ran. It took a moment before he realized I was gone; I heard the belt crack against the wall and his muffled curses.

    I raced to my room and slammed the door shut. My eyes scanned the room for an escape route. My window. I jumped up onto my bed and forced it open, punching the screen out just as he burst through the door. The lock had been removed years ago, and now there wasn't even a knob. I wasn't to be trusted anymore. I was a teenager. I was worthless.

    He dropped the belt as he stumbled toward me and leaned down to retrieve it, giving me time to think about what I would do next. My hands moved frantically. I tossed pillows down to the ground to land on, not wanting to cause any more injuries than I already had. He stood back up and took another swing at me, this time with his fist. It collided with my jaw and I felt the salty blood immediately soak into my tongue. He was so off balance from the punch that all it took was a hard shove from me and he fell down on the floor.

    I crawled onto the windowsill and stood, poised, my toes curling over the edge. I look down. It was a long way to the ground below. I took a deep breath and jumped, wanting to scream, but knowing there would be trouble if I did.

    The summery scent of chlorine and grass clippings that filled my head as I ran down the street also filled my mind with a hope that I could soon be leading a different life, in a different place, without this pain.

    I passed several dark windowed houses, a few people outside smoking and a couple TV's blinking an array of colors out through the windows. I checked my watch; 11:41pm.

    I turned left at the end of the road, wiping tears that were flying out of my eyes now, passed another street and took a right. His window was lit up, the only one on the block. The plus of living in a rich suburb for CEO's and their Stepford Wives; no one ever stayed up late or had the guts to ask uncomfortable questions. When I came up to the brick tudor house, I knocked on his window and hissed, "It's Dawn."

    He pulled it open a second later and helped me climb through.

    "Hey, Sunnie," he said, using my pet name from when we were barely five years old and he was teasing me about my name. I could feel my eyes welling up with hot tears and I struggled to hold them back. "Oh God, he hit you again didn't he," Adam said. He enveloped me in his arms and I clutched at his bare skin, sobs tearing through me.

    He picked me up carefully, so as not to encourage any bruises in-the-making. Fingers went through my hair softly, almost like wind, and his voice whispering in my ear numbed the pain a little, but not enough.

    It was never enough.

    Adam placed one hand on my arm to steady me, but flinched back and held his fingers up to the light to show the red glistening off them.

    "Dawn, you're bleeding," he said, horrified. How could he be though? This was nothing new.

    "I know."

    He led me off the bed and into the bathroom to clean off my arm. His hands were gentle on the cut, as they've always been, having my every nerve memorized. He handed me a Bandaid and looked me over.

    I peeled off the paper strips and press the bandage against my skin. Draping my long mahogany hair down in front of me, I turned and spit into the sink. Blood ran down the drain, leaving a thick pink mark on the porcelin. I turned on the water to wash it out, but Adam had seen it.

    "He got you in the mouth too."

    I nodded and crept past him back into his room. The water ran as he washed his hands clean of my blood, and I wiped vigorously at the remaining tears on my cheeks.

    "What was it for this time?" Adam asked as he sat down beside me.

    I shook my head. I didn't want to talk about this. "Can I sleep here tonight?" I asked quietly.

    "Of course." He held me gently around my middle.

    I picked up the remote and turned to Nickelodeon. Spongebob was on; one of my favorites, The Camping Episode. I smiled weakly as Spongebob shot a marshmallow down Squidward's throat.

    "Dawn, you need to tell somebody."

    I snapped out of my TV daze and landed back in reality.

    "He can't do this to you."

    I couldn't tell anyone. I was too afraid that I'd get hurt worse. "I'm going to bed now," I said, and crawled under his bed to get the spare sleeping bag he left for me always.

    He sighed and handed me a pillow and one of his old summer camp t-shirts. I shut the door to the bathroom and took off all my clothes.

    It was horrible to look at my own body, to see all the scars and the bruises, covering me. I am worthless. I am worthless.

    I shook my head to also shake away the thoughts my father had tattooed into my mind. I'm fine. There are a lot of other people who have it worse than I do.

    I pulled the shirt over my head and breathed out as it billowed around my thin frame. The cotton was heaven to my body, not clinging anywhere that hurt, letting my injuries breathe.

    I used Adam's spare toothbrush and splashed cold water on my face to kill off the aching in my jaw, at least for a few minutes. I slipped back into his room. The TV was turned off and he was lying shirtless on his bed, half asleep. His vibrant green eyes shone in the dim light of the lamp. I glanced at the sleeping bag and rethought the lonely prospect of sleeping alone down there.

    He seemed to read my mind because he asked, "Why don't you sleep with me this time?" With anyone else I would have read it as a suggestion of sex-sex, but with Adam it was different.

    I nodded and slid under the covers.

    He touched my hand lightly, reminding me that he was there, but he knew not to get too close and upset my abused body.

    I drifted off, my heart matching the pulse of his breathing.