PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I was sitting right where he left me, right between the two burners on the stove.  Moving a muscle would mean shifting into them, and they were set on high.  I didn’t dare jump down.  That would make things even worse.  I glanced at the clock, trying to judge how much time I had before Father would come storming back in.  He was in one of his drunken rages again.  Luckily I’d noticed the rage coming on and managed to send Maddie and Todd over to their friend’s house before it got too out of control.  They don’t even know what Father was like before Mom died giving birth to them.  The least I can do is do my best to protect them.  

Father stumbled into the room.  Quickly I resumed my gaze right above the kitchen table.  He wobbled over and grabbed me around the neck, slurring “Why’re ya lookin’ so ins’lent, you little runt?”

I knew better than to try and answer him.  That would simply ensue in his grip tightening.  He slammed my head back against the wall before releasing me.  “Ge’ your ass down from there!” he commanded. Carefully, I slid down from the stove, resisting the urge to rub my sore neck and head, and assumed my passive stance staring at the ground between Father’s feet.  I knew better than to flinch as he cuffed me across the face again and again.  

Finally, when I could no longer stand and had crumpled into a collapsed heap on the floor, he kicked me one last time before intoning a complex set of directions for me to follow.  He handed me a knife and forced me to take slice after slice out of my arm, as he proclaimed each for an imagined sin against him.  He caught the dripping blood in a bucket and forced me to drink it down.  I couldn’t take it.  I vomited.  It took several failed attempts before I finally managed to swallow that mess.

There were still hours left to go until night when I could rest from all this torment.  I wished Father would tell me what I’d done wrong.  “All I ever get is the punishment,” I thought.  “I never find out what I did wrong.”  I bet I could fix it if I knew what to fix.  

Father dragged me up to my room and gruffly tied my wrists and ankles together, then forced me to painfully arch my back as he tied my wrists to my feet.  I felt the blood flow restrict, slow, maybe it stop completely for all I know.

I drifted into a state of delirium from the copious amounts of blood loss and the excruciating position in which I was bound.  The trees there were so beautiful.  Shades of red and orange and yellow that I didn’t know existed.  They all began to blend into each other, a beautiful swirl of colors kaleidoscoping through my imagination.

I woke to Father slapping me across the face.  “Wake up!” He shrieks at me, “Wake up you little shit!  Who the hell gave you permission to take a nap!”  My mind was moving so slowly.  I didn’t comprehend.  Had I really fallen asleep?  It all seemed so peaceful and real there.  I wanted to go back.

Father’s hands wrapping around my neck jerked me back into reality.  He shook me so hard I thought my spine was going to snap.  Finally he threw me to the ground and pulled out his pocketknife.  He sliced the fishing line that was binding me.  It had cut deeply into my skin, leaving bloody red streaks across my wrists and ankles.  

He dug his fingers into my scalp and roughly pulled me to my feet by my tangled hair.  His hand entwined in my dirty blonde locks was all that was holding me up.  The pain of the blood rushing back into my deprived limbs was nearly unbearable.  I almost passed out again.  His spittle flew all over my face as he ranted and raged at me for what seemed like hours.  I did my best to tune it out like always.

Dusk was fast approaching, so I was launched down the stairs and ordered to go fetch the twins.  I am so glad they don’t have to live through this every day of their lives.  I’m able to shield them from Father’s drunken madness.  I went to bed that night, much like any other night.  I started the process of blocking out and repressing all that had happened to me.  

I put on my façade, showing the world that I live in a perfectly happy family.  After all, a bruise here and there is what’s expected of a rough and tumble girl like me at the ripe old age of eight.  No one will ever know that what goes on here is more than a tomboy falling out of a tree or getting too close to the campfire while she’s making s’mores with her younger brother and sister.