5
Skye
Somehow, as usual, my father made it seem like I was having some kind of mental episode. His influence means he has much of the police force in his pocket. Maybe he has all of them. Who knows.
Even though it was self-defense, I had to come back home to the place where I’m forced to defend myself. I have no intention of staying here for long, though.
My mother doesn’t speak as she sets the plate in front of me on the kitchen table. Daddy Dearest circles around me, never leaving his back exposed. Which is dumb, because if I ever have a second chance, I’ll go for his throat.
I glance around the room to avoid looking at the food in front of me. Flashing neon signs of abuse cover this fucking place. The kitchen walls showcase the nightmare—blood splatter covered by paint, and places where heads or elbows have broken through. So much blood has marred these walls that I’m surprised they aren’t painted red. Warped metal covers the appliances from taking the hit of a flying knee a time or two.
This home is a horror house. No wonder no one visits us. One look in here and the people who know Daddy Dearest as the quiet and reserved businessman would see him for what he really is: an animal. No, even animals have some form of conscience. He’s more like a monster, hurting people for the fun of it. His bloodied hands are permanently stained, yet he has a squeaky-clean record while mine is tarnished. What kind of upside down fuckery is this?
I pick at the food on my plate. Part of me worries that my smited mother has poisoned my food. The rest of me wants to puke at the sight of the curling noodles.
“Eat, Skye,” Daddy Dearest says with a gesture of his fork.
I roll my eyes, spear a singular noodle with my fork, and bring it to my lips. They tremble in protest. Instead of forcing it down, I let it fall back to my plate. I have no control in this fucking house—except when it comes to what I put in my body.
I look at my mother’s bruised and battered face. Some marks are fresh. A splash of purple and blue peeks from beneath her blonde bangs—a recent hairstyle she adopted to cover Daddy Dearest’s handiwork.
My gaze shoots back to my dad. “How'd you get the judge to do what he did?”
He looks at me with a cocky smile on his stupid face. As if I should be grateful for all he's done for me.
“Allowing you to seek counseling instead of putting charges on your record?” He grabs my face, and his fingers dig into my skin. “Well, dear, my pockets are deeper than our little family secrets.”
He releases me, and I recoil from his grasp with a snarl. I’d almost prefer jail time and a criminal record over talking to anyone about my feelings. I don’t know why they care what happens to me when they are what happens to me.
Sometimes I pretend the squat man beside me with an angular jaw that makes him look mad all the time is not my father. His hair is a golden brown while mine is jet-black. And my real dad wouldn’t burn me with cigarettes or break my bones. Maybe my mom had an affair with someone while Dad was away on one of his long business trips. Maybe she slept with a handsome and kind man—one who wouldn't hit a woman. I imagine I was conceived from some unforgettable one-night stand, not whatever they think this is. It’s not love.
“If you don’t start eating, we’ll have you admitted again. Is that what you want?” Mother asks as she thrusts her fork at me.
The corners of my lips lift at her threat. Does she know what didn’t happen while I was locked away in the hospital? Beatings, emotional abuse, and sexual assault. No one broke my arm while punishing me for failing a test at school. No one beat me senseless until I couldn’t even recognize myself. I didn’t have a man grunting behind me instead of protecting me.
No, not my father. He isn’t that sick. Daddy dearest just fucks me mentally. But both abusers emotionally wounded my ability to trust men.
“Did you hear me?” she pushes.
“Yes, I heard you,” I say.
“Well?”
“Sounds like a good time.” I look up and smile at her. “I’ll go pack a bag.”
She stammers over her words as I leave the table and empty the rest of dinner into the garbage.
* * *
Unsurprisingly,my mother’s threat of a good time was empty. Raw, painful music pumps through the big headphones that crush the waves of my black hair as I sit in my room. It speaks to me. I lie back and close my eyes, letting the words of hurt sink into my brain. I could write a song like this. Something about bruises, being broken, and not being good enough. I’d sing my worthlessness over dark and dreary music. It would be beautiful.
My bedroom walls are devoid of anything personal. My bed is cheap and rickety. The laptop beside me is the only thing I truly own, and it blares my feelings through the headphones.
As the dark music fills my brain, the ache in my heart surfaces. I lean over and open the drawer of my bedside table. My fingers swirl, trying to find my relief. I carefully grasp it and expose it to the room. A silver razor. I rock the sharp edges between my fingers as I move my head to the music. The blade dances to the beat. I grip the metal, lower the waistband of my shorts, and feel for the soft, scarred areas that rise up and surround the notch of my hip bone. I love to cut here. It hurts like a bitch, of course, but my pants will rub the wound with every step—tiny, painful reminders.
Hello, remember me? I’m all your pain, and I’m here to hurt you again.
If I move too fast, I’ll hardly feel the blade as it slips through my skin. Some people prefer that, but in that case, what’s the point?
I rock the razor in my hand and drop the corner to my hip. I press down, inching it across my flesh. Inching still sounds too fast. It’s crawling along my flesh. No, it’s dragging through it.
The skin separates with pleasurable pain, releasing all the feel-good hormones my brain craves. I hold my breath as crimson liquid rises to the surface to fill the new channel of open flesh. It falls in a thick line, and I pull my shorts away, letting it drip somewhere the warm liquid shouldn’t be.
Fucking A, I’m messed up.
I don’t think this fuckery is all from abuse. Can I really blame all of this on that? I think there’s an ailing area of my mind that just wants to cast its shadow out and darken the rest of my brain. What came first . . . the bruises or the depression?
Once my brain is satisfied, I grab a bloodied towel and dab at the new cuts etched into my skin. I really do need to be admitted.