Prologue
Running…
My legs kept pushing me away from him. I didn't dare look back, in fear that I should see him running after me.My heart beat wildly, trying desperately to keep me alive. While he tried to kill me. Again and again. Just like he has for the past three, almost four, years.I am Alexandria Henry. I am 14.He is my father.
CH:1
Before the pain…
I always knew my father was an alcoholic. It was just a fact to me, like that the sky is blue, Romeo and Juliet are in love, and that E is equivalent to M times C-squared. It was just there.
I did love my parents. I love my late mother to this day. Dad, however, is a different story.
When I was 7, Mom got cancer and died 2 months later. I was grief stricken and Mark always had a shoulder for me to cry on.
After Mom died, Father started to drink more and more with each passing week. Most of the time, Mark had to take care of me. He would cook supper, help me with my homework and send me to bed. And then, Father would get home about 10 and would yell at Mark. And there were always thuds. I prayed and hoped that the thud was Father hitting the table or the wall. But when I saw Mark in the morning, I knew that all my hopes and prayers were for naught.
And then, my only barrier between Father and me moved.
The night Mark told me that he was moving was a grim night indeed.
"Alex! Are you awake in there?" I heard Mark call gently. His shoe-clad feet padded softly down the shag-carpeted hallway.
"Hmm?" I stuck my head out of the bedroom door. "Why are you wearing shoes? What's with the bags at the end of the hallway? What's going on?!?" I began to fear what he was going to say at that moment.
"I am so sorry, Alex. But I've got a scholarship to UW-Madison. I'm leaving. I'm going to college and… When I can get a proper home for you, away from Father, I'll get you. We'll live together and everything'll be OK. I promise." Mark looked tearfully at me. He kissed my forehead and walked away. He never looked back.
That was August 13th.
Now, it's June 30th. Almost 5 years later.
I always knew my father was an alcoholic. It was just a fact to me, like that the sky is blue, Romeo and Juliet are in love, and that E is equivalent to M times C-squared. It was just there.
I did love my parents. I love my late mother to this day. Dad, however, is a different story.
When I was 7, Mom got cancer and died 2 months later. I was grief stricken and Mark always had a shoulder for me to cry on.
After Mom died, Father started to drink more and more with each passing week. Most of the time, Mark had to take care of me. He would cook supper, help me with my homework and send me to bed. And then, Father would get home about 10 and would yell at Mark. And there were always thuds. I prayed and hoped that the thud was Father hitting the table or the wall. But when I saw Mark in the morning, I knew that all my hopes and prayers were for naught.
And then, my only barrier between Father and me moved.
The night Mark told me that he was moving was a grim night indeed.
"Alex! Are you awake in there?" I heard Mark call gently. His shoe-clad feet padded softly down the shag-carpeted hallway.
"Hmm?" I stuck my head out of the bedroom door. "Why are you wearing shoes? What's with the bags at the end of the hallway? What's going on?!?" I began to fear what he was going to say at that moment.
"I am so sorry, Alex. But I've got a scholarship to UW-Madison. I'm leaving. I'm going to college and… When I can get a proper home for you, away from Father, I'll get you. We'll live together and everything'll be OK. I promise." Mark looked tearfully at me. He kissed my forehead and walked away. He never looked back.
That was August 13th.
Now, it's June 30th. Almost 5 years later.
Ch:2
Life as I know it
As I ran and ran, not looking back, I accidentally ran into the town. I was aiming for the forest. Oh, well.
"Hey Alex! What's up?" I heard Jasper, my best friend, call out. "When did you start jogging?" he joked.
"Nothing much here, Jazzy. And I have never liked jogging, thank you very much. How are you?" I panted, trying to catch my breath.
"Then why are you?" He grinned. Oh, how I wished I could tell him! I wanted to spill my guts to him. I wanted him to comfort me as I told him about all of Father's threats. Why I always had to leave right away when I got to the place where we were meeting on that day.
"Alex?… You awake?" Jasper asked, looking concerned.
"I'm fine. Yes, I am awake. And I just wanted to get to town quickly. OK?" I looked around, praying (once again) that Father is still at home. He is. For now.
Then, I heard the 'put-put-put' of our old pick-up truck coming around the corner. Dang it.
The truck is an ugly forest green with paint peeling and rust showing through. The windshield cracked at the corner when Mark accidentally hit a baseball at the car. And, as you probably guessed, Mark never played baseball again after Father was done with him.
"Hey, hon! Do you wanna come back to the house? Get some lunch?" Father asked, leaning out of the car window. He grinned easily, as if nothing had happened at home. As if he didn't give me a new bruise each night.
"No thanks," I said quietly, looking at the ground meekly. Hoping all the while that he won't get out of the car and start thrashing me in front of Jasper. "I already ate." It is really sad how easily I can lie. But, I have to. Father forces me to on a constant basis.
"Oh. OK, then. I'll see you later. I guess." Father looked slightly disappointed, but there was something else in his expression. It was like trying to see someone through a veil, not able to see clearly. As soon as I walk into the door at home, I was probably never going to see the light of day ever again.
After the car 'put-putt-ed' around the corner and down the road, I turned to Jasper and asked, "Got anything to eat?"
Jasper looked (once again) so very confused. "But I thought you just said to your dad that you ate already!"
"I lied. OK?"
"Why? I mean, he's your dad and he's really nice! Why would you lie to him?"
"Just because! He's a terrible cook. And… He smokes! I don't really want to get lung disease!"
"Yeah, whatever," was Jasper's reply. He rolled his eyes indiscreetly. "Well… Here's 2 dollars. Sara's on shift." He handed me the money. I smiled gratefully.
"Thanks! I promise you, I'll pay you back ASAP."
"Aw, you don't hafta! It doesn't matter."
"I'll pay!" We laughed as we quickly down to the only fast food restaurant in the whole town, where my friend Sara worked.
As I walked into the restaurant, the aroma of hot, greasy food filled my nose, tempting me. I hadn't had food in about three days. It was one of Father's torture systems. It was also one of his favorites. Father would lock me in my room and let me out only to go to the bathroom. He never gave me food. Not until I "earned" it. Once, he kept me in my room for seven days! Then, I was so weak that I couldn't protest when he decided to beat me on the seventh day before giving me a small, inadequate meal.
"Hey, girl! I haven't seen you in, what. Three days?" Sara called cheerfully from her post behind the counter.
"Hey Sara!" I said as happily as I could. My stomach grumbled angrily. I quickly pressed my hand against it, trying to hush it.
"Hungry?" Sara grinned. I nodded, desperate for food. "I'll get you your usual, then! Can you just get me $1.75?" I nodded again, handing her the cash. "Are you tired?" Again, I nodded. Yes, I am tired. From not being able to sleep because of the fear that Father would come in and slit my throat like he promised to do so many times before.
Sara smiled all-knowingly at me. That's why I like her so much. She always knows when something is wrong. Even if she doesn't know how severe it is.
Sara handed me the tray with my usual cheese burger, fries and chocolate shake on it.
"Gimme a minute. My shift'll be over then." Sara winked at me. I smiled.
I ran over to a small table and Jasper (being a gentleman, for once) held out a seat for me. I put down my tray and curtsied with a fake skirt. Sara saw me and laughed.
I quickly sat down and ate my lunch. Jasper told me cruel and dirty jokes, causing me to laugh and gag on my food.
Sara ran over to us and we all laughed. Even with my "situation" at home, I was happy. Sara and Jasper kept me sane and alive. The only reason Father didn't kill me was because he knew Sara and Jasper would realize I wasn't there.
FEAR
Jasper walked me home. Sara had to leave early for a babysitting job.
He talked and talked.
"See ya later, Al!" Jasper grinned. I waved good-bye. A knot formed in my stomach as I walked to the front door.
The door slowly creaked open, sending chills of foreboding down my spine.
'Please… Please… Don't be home. Don't be angry…'
I tip-toed up the stairs, jumping an old rickety step.
I threw myself onto my bed, shaking in fright. I closed my eyes, listening intently for sounds of Father. Downstairs, I heard the TV click off. My heart pounded as I listened to heavy footsteps clunking up the steps. I knew he was coming for me.
"Where the fuck were you, you little bitch?!? I needed you to clean the bathroom!"
I sat up as quickly as I could, trying not to look exhausted or lazy. Father's ruddy, fat face glared at me. He looked madder than I've ever seen him.
"I-I-I'm sorry! You sent me out of the house and I left! Like you told me to. I am so sorry! Look, I'll get right to it! I'll work twice as hard. Please don't hurt me!" I stammered, hoping to evade punishment.
Sadly, my pleas did nothing to change Father's mind.
He dragged me by the hair to the kitchen, where he normally carries out his torture. I didn't cry out as he pulled my hair.
Father threw me roughly onto the linoleum. I bit my lip, trying not to scream. He walked over to me, picked me up and slammed my head onto the sink. Stars danced before my eyes, taunting me, daring me to slip out of consciousness. He grabbed my collar, slapping my face to and fro.
When he was done slapping me, he punched my nose, sending bloody flows down my visage and into my mouth.
I fell to the floor, gasping and clutching my broken, bruised nose.
My cheeks burned, not from the pain, but from the humiliation of what someone would see if they walked into my situation at this point.
Father rammed his foot into my backside, sending me sprawling. I got onto my hands and knees, breathing heavily. Father hoisted me up by the arm. He quickly and surely bound and gagged me to a chair. He got out a bandana and blindfolded me.
Through my sensitive hearing, I could tell that he was walking towards and opening the sharp knife drawer. I struggled furiously against the bonds that held me. Even though at all other times I didn't rebel, I would NOT let him cut me again.
"Stop struggling, you little piece of shit. It'll be over soon. Everything will." Tiny pricks of sweat started down my face. He is going to kill me.
Kill me…
Why must the world be so cruel? Or at least Father. I had prayed for this moment. For the end. But now, I wish that my death was much farther away. Much, much farther away.
I could feel the knife coming closer and closer to my right cheek. I felt the sharp point dig into my cut, opening it up.
I couldn't help myself. I opened my mouth to scream, but the gag was tied tightly around my head. I couldn't make any noise. I shrieked anyways.
Father had finished on my right cheek. He is going to give me a matching scar on my left.
It was too much. I let myself slump in my chair, giving up.
'Please… Stop it… Let me leave… Let me go…'
I heard footsteps. They must be Father's. He left me tied to the chair. I listened as the TV turned back on. A beer popped open in the family room.
I took as deep a breath as my bonds would let me. The sweat dripped down my face. The ties around my wrists were slowly cutting off the blood supply to my hands.
And yet, I could do nothing to help myself.
I think.
I pushed my legs against the floor as hard as I could, trying to knock my chair over. It worked! But, ow! Apparently, the butcher knife was right where my hands landed. The knife nicked my palm a little bit.
I struggled to pick up the knife.
And when I finally did, I arched my back so as not to kill myself. Yet.
Slowly but surely, I cut the bond. I quickly pulled my aching arms out from under the chair, letting blood back into them.
When my arms were usable, I untied my mouth, eyes, legs and the bond around my chest. I stood up, getting off the fallen chair. I quickly set it back by the table. I picked up the bandana and stooped down, sopping up the blood. My blood.
After that, I meekly walked into the TV room, head bowed. I prayed with all my heart that Father would just send me to my room. "Father?" I whispered tentatively.
The TV turned off.
That is a very bad sign.
"Don't you dare talk to me! Not unless I tell you to! You fucking bitch! Do you understand me? Yes or no?" Father bellowed at me, getting right up in my face.
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes sir. I will not talk unless you tell me to. I will try to uphold this rule."
"You're damn right you'll follow it! 'Cause if you don't… well, I think you know the consequences. Now, bitch. You will go clean the fucking filthy bathroom. I want it sparkling when I come to check on you in, let's say, 30 minutes. Now GO!"
I bolted upstairs, cleaning supplies in my arms.
27 minutes left.
I scrubbed the floor. I cleaned the toilet.
20 minutes left.
I wiped the mirror. I scoured the sinks.
15 minutes left.
I polished the counters. I disinfected the bathtub.
1 minute left.
My heart pounded the entire time, hoping that it was clean enough for Father.
I got up off the floor and stood at attention just outside the door. I tried to make my back as straight as possible, hoping to make Father happy.
Suddenly, as I listened to his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, I remembered all the cleaning supplies still on the floor of the bathroom. Aw, crud!
He was too close. There was no way I could've run in there and grabbed all the supplies and ran out in time. I'm going to get it bad for sure.
My heart dropped to the floor, and I was suddenly nauseous. My stomach threatened to reject the meal I just ate. My throat tightened up. My hands felt clammy. My knees started shaking. My head throbbed painfully. I felt like I was going to feint. My eyes stung, threatening to fill with all the tears that I've been holding back for four years. I worked on holding them back.
And then, Father appeared. He is just over six feet tall and almost 300 pounds (136.077711 kilograms), seeing as I do all the work around the house. His face is bloated and red from all of that alcohol. His hair is a pale blond and is slowly receding. His eyes are bloodshot, small and beady. In my distant memory, I remember them being a bright and clear hazel. Now, they just look black. Terror filled my entire being. His piercing eyes stabbed my face, my chest. I couldn't breathe.
Everything turned black…
As I ran and ran, not looking back, I accidentally ran into the town. I was aiming for the forest. Oh, well.
"Hey Alex! What's up?" I heard Jasper, my best friend, call out. "When did you start jogging?" he joked.
"Nothing much here, Jazzy. And I have never liked jogging, thank you very much. How are you?" I panted, trying to catch my breath.
"Then why are you?" He grinned. Oh, how I wished I could tell him! I wanted to spill my guts to him. I wanted him to comfort me as I told him about all of Father's threats. Why I always had to leave right away when I got to the place where we were meeting on that day.
"Alex?… You awake?" Jasper asked, looking concerned.
"I'm fine. Yes, I am awake. And I just wanted to get to town quickly. OK?" I looked around, praying (once again) that Father is still at home. He is. For now.
Then, I heard the 'put-put-put' of our old pick-up truck coming around the corner. Dang it.
The truck is an ugly forest green with paint peeling and rust showing through. The windshield cracked at the corner when Mark accidentally hit a baseball at the car. And, as you probably guessed, Mark never played baseball again after Father was done with him.
"Hey, hon! Do you wanna come back to the house? Get some lunch?" Father asked, leaning out of the car window. He grinned easily, as if nothing had happened at home. As if he didn't give me a new bruise each night.
"No thanks," I said quietly, looking at the ground meekly. Hoping all the while that he won't get out of the car and start thrashing me in front of Jasper. "I already ate." It is really sad how easily I can lie. But, I have to. Father forces me to on a constant basis.
"Oh. OK, then. I'll see you later. I guess." Father looked slightly disappointed, but there was something else in his expression. It was like trying to see someone through a veil, not able to see clearly. As soon as I walk into the door at home, I was probably never going to see the light of day ever again.
After the car 'put-putt-ed' around the corner and down the road, I turned to Jasper and asked, "Got anything to eat?"
Jasper looked (once again) so very confused. "But I thought you just said to your dad that you ate already!"
"I lied. OK?"
"Why? I mean, he's your dad and he's really nice! Why would you lie to him?"
"Just because! He's a terrible cook. And… He smokes! I don't really want to get lung disease!"
"Yeah, whatever," was Jasper's reply. He rolled his eyes indiscreetly. "Well… Here's 2 dollars. Sara's on shift." He handed me the money. I smiled gratefully.
"Thanks! I promise you, I'll pay you back ASAP."
"Aw, you don't hafta! It doesn't matter."
"I'll pay!" We laughed as we quickly down to the only fast food restaurant in the whole town, where my friend Sara worked.
As I walked into the restaurant, the aroma of hot, greasy food filled my nose, tempting me. I hadn't had food in about three days. It was one of Father's torture systems. It was also one of his favorites. Father would lock me in my room and let me out only to go to the bathroom. He never gave me food. Not until I "earned" it. Once, he kept me in my room for seven days! Then, I was so weak that I couldn't protest when he decided to beat me on the seventh day before giving me a small, inadequate meal.
"Hey, girl! I haven't seen you in, what. Three days?" Sara called cheerfully from her post behind the counter.
"Hey Sara!" I said as happily as I could. My stomach grumbled angrily. I quickly pressed my hand against it, trying to hush it.
"Hungry?" Sara grinned. I nodded, desperate for food. "I'll get you your usual, then! Can you just get me $1.75?" I nodded again, handing her the cash. "Are you tired?" Again, I nodded. Yes, I am tired. From not being able to sleep because of the fear that Father would come in and slit my throat like he promised to do so many times before.
Sara smiled all-knowingly at me. That's why I like her so much. She always knows when something is wrong. Even if she doesn't know how severe it is.
Sara handed me the tray with my usual cheese burger, fries and chocolate shake on it.
"Gimme a minute. My shift'll be over then." Sara winked at me. I smiled.
I ran over to a small table and Jasper (being a gentleman, for once) held out a seat for me. I put down my tray and curtsied with a fake skirt. Sara saw me and laughed.
I quickly sat down and ate my lunch. Jasper told me cruel and dirty jokes, causing me to laugh and gag on my food.
Sara ran over to us and we all laughed. Even with my "situation" at home, I was happy. Sara and Jasper kept me sane and alive. The only reason Father didn't kill me was because he knew Sara and Jasper would realize I wasn't there.
FEAR
Jasper walked me home. Sara had to leave early for a babysitting job.
He talked and talked.
"See ya later, Al!" Jasper grinned. I waved good-bye. A knot formed in my stomach as I walked to the front door.
The door slowly creaked open, sending chills of foreboding down my spine.
'Please… Please… Don't be home. Don't be angry…'
I tip-toed up the stairs, jumping an old rickety step.
I threw myself onto my bed, shaking in fright. I closed my eyes, listening intently for sounds of Father. Downstairs, I heard the TV click off. My heart pounded as I listened to heavy footsteps clunking up the steps. I knew he was coming for me.
"Where the fuck were you, you little bitch?!? I needed you to clean the bathroom!"
I sat up as quickly as I could, trying not to look exhausted or lazy. Father's ruddy, fat face glared at me. He looked madder than I've ever seen him.
"I-I-I'm sorry! You sent me out of the house and I left! Like you told me to. I am so sorry! Look, I'll get right to it! I'll work twice as hard. Please don't hurt me!" I stammered, hoping to evade punishment.
Sadly, my pleas did nothing to change Father's mind.
He dragged me by the hair to the kitchen, where he normally carries out his torture. I didn't cry out as he pulled my hair.
Father threw me roughly onto the linoleum. I bit my lip, trying not to scream. He walked over to me, picked me up and slammed my head onto the sink. Stars danced before my eyes, taunting me, daring me to slip out of consciousness. He grabbed my collar, slapping my face to and fro.
When he was done slapping me, he punched my nose, sending bloody flows down my visage and into my mouth.
I fell to the floor, gasping and clutching my broken, bruised nose.
My cheeks burned, not from the pain, but from the humiliation of what someone would see if they walked into my situation at this point.
Father rammed his foot into my backside, sending me sprawling. I got onto my hands and knees, breathing heavily. Father hoisted me up by the arm. He quickly and surely bound and gagged me to a chair. He got out a bandana and blindfolded me.
Through my sensitive hearing, I could tell that he was walking towards and opening the sharp knife drawer. I struggled furiously against the bonds that held me. Even though at all other times I didn't rebel, I would NOT let him cut me again.
"Stop struggling, you little piece of shit. It'll be over soon. Everything will." Tiny pricks of sweat started down my face. He is going to kill me.
Kill me…
Why must the world be so cruel? Or at least Father. I had prayed for this moment. For the end. But now, I wish that my death was much farther away. Much, much farther away.
I could feel the knife coming closer and closer to my right cheek. I felt the sharp point dig into my cut, opening it up.
I couldn't help myself. I opened my mouth to scream, but the gag was tied tightly around my head. I couldn't make any noise. I shrieked anyways.
Father had finished on my right cheek. He is going to give me a matching scar on my left.
It was too much. I let myself slump in my chair, giving up.
'Please… Stop it… Let me leave… Let me go…'
I heard footsteps. They must be Father's. He left me tied to the chair. I listened as the TV turned back on. A beer popped open in the family room.
I took as deep a breath as my bonds would let me. The sweat dripped down my face. The ties around my wrists were slowly cutting off the blood supply to my hands.
And yet, I could do nothing to help myself.
I think.
I pushed my legs against the floor as hard as I could, trying to knock my chair over. It worked! But, ow! Apparently, the butcher knife was right where my hands landed. The knife nicked my palm a little bit.
I struggled to pick up the knife.
And when I finally did, I arched my back so as not to kill myself. Yet.
Slowly but surely, I cut the bond. I quickly pulled my aching arms out from under the chair, letting blood back into them.
When my arms were usable, I untied my mouth, eyes, legs and the bond around my chest. I stood up, getting off the fallen chair. I quickly set it back by the table. I picked up the bandana and stooped down, sopping up the blood. My blood.
After that, I meekly walked into the TV room, head bowed. I prayed with all my heart that Father would just send me to my room. "Father?" I whispered tentatively.
The TV turned off.
That is a very bad sign.
"Don't you dare talk to me! Not unless I tell you to! You fucking bitch! Do you understand me? Yes or no?" Father bellowed at me, getting right up in my face.
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes sir. I will not talk unless you tell me to. I will try to uphold this rule."
"You're damn right you'll follow it! 'Cause if you don't… well, I think you know the consequences. Now, bitch. You will go clean the fucking filthy bathroom. I want it sparkling when I come to check on you in, let's say, 30 minutes. Now GO!"
I bolted upstairs, cleaning supplies in my arms.
27 minutes left.
I scrubbed the floor. I cleaned the toilet.
20 minutes left.
I wiped the mirror. I scoured the sinks.
15 minutes left.
I polished the counters. I disinfected the bathtub.
1 minute left.
My heart pounded the entire time, hoping that it was clean enough for Father.
I got up off the floor and stood at attention just outside the door. I tried to make my back as straight as possible, hoping to make Father happy.
Suddenly, as I listened to his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, I remembered all the cleaning supplies still on the floor of the bathroom. Aw, crud!
He was too close. There was no way I could've run in there and grabbed all the supplies and ran out in time. I'm going to get it bad for sure.
My heart dropped to the floor, and I was suddenly nauseous. My stomach threatened to reject the meal I just ate. My throat tightened up. My hands felt clammy. My knees started shaking. My head throbbed painfully. I felt like I was going to feint. My eyes stung, threatening to fill with all the tears that I've been holding back for four years. I worked on holding them back.
And then, Father appeared. He is just over six feet tall and almost 300 pounds (136.077711 kilograms), seeing as I do all the work around the house. His face is bloated and red from all of that alcohol. His hair is a pale blond and is slowly receding. His eyes are bloodshot, small and beady. In my distant memory, I remember them being a bright and clear hazel. Now, they just look black. Terror filled my entire being. His piercing eyes stabbed my face, my chest. I couldn't breathe.
Everything turned black…
Ch:3
When everything changes
As I came to, I picked up on a few things. I was lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding from my face, arms, legs, back and gut. Father was standing over me, knife in hand, laughing. My head throbbed angrily. I was shaking uncontrollably. Everything hurt so much, I wasn't able to feel anything at all. I was lightheaded. It felt like I was just floating in the air, staring at the blood.
Everything was red.
Red.
Blood.
Pain.
Fear.
This is my life. What had I done wrong? Surely something. But what? Was it simply because I was alive? Because I hadn't been able to save my mom?
I pushed myself onto my knees and vomited. Father kicked my side again. I could hear the sickening crunch of some ribs snapping.
Dear Lord, kill me now.
I passed out again.
FEAR
Waking up again, everything still hurt. I couldn't remember anything at all. Where was I? Was I dead yet? No, heaven didn't harm.
Jasper walked through the back door, gaping at me, concern in his eyes. I stretched my hand towards him, begging him to help me. Jazzy ran towards me, grasping my hand. He glared at Father.
"How could you do this to her? Your only daughter!" he snarled, livid. "You're drunk, aren't you? Really, really drunk."
"What's your point? Who cares if she's dead? She's just a piece of shit that doesn't deserve to live!" Father snapped.
"I do!" With that, he gently picked me up, putting me on his back and ran out the still-open back door. He is one of the top track runners at school, so he was able to sprint as fast as humanly possible with me on his back.
When we got into the actual town, there was a group of girls standing outside the Abercrombie & Fitch®. They spun around, gawking at us.
"Jasper!" one of them gasped. He just nodded to them curtly, still darting to the hospital at top speed. I buried my face into his shoulder, blushing. Utterly humiliated. Now everyone knew! Oh, gosh…
The cold, sterile air hit me, enveloping me in its chilly arms. Jazzy set me down on a chair as cautiously as he could.
I was so tired. So very exhausted. I hadn't gotten a good night sleep in years. My eyes slid shut wearily, begging me to fall asleep.
"Lu?" Jasper whispered. Shut up, Jazzy, please. I thought angrily. I wanna sleep. Leave me be.
"Lulu! Look at me. Are you awake?" he muttered urgently. I slowly opened my eyes. "Ok, good." He ran his fingers carefully down my face, looking sadly at my black eye. I smiled. The sadness in his eyes didn't leave.
"Jazzy? What's going to happen to me now?" I murmured. "I'm scared. My side hurts." I touched my right side, feeling how swollen it was, wincing.
"I don't really know, Al. But now, all you have to do is relax and heal." He grinned weakly.
"Jasper!" a lady called from behind him. I could have recognized that voice anywhere.
Jasper's mom.
My face burned, angry and humiliated. She was one of the nicest people I know. She gives me food whenever I looked hungry. Whenever I'm wandering around, looking upset, she takes me in for a while and we talk. It's always seemed like she suspected that something was going on at my house, but I don't want to confirm that! Oh, God, Father is going to kill me now for sure!
Mrs. Jones now is standing behind her son, looking at me. Her face is a mask of pain and confusion. Her mouth gapes open. She raises her hand to her right cheek, which is perfectly smooth. Unlike mine. Mine is still bleeding. I can feel the hot, sticky liquid dribbling down my face and neck, soaking into my ratty T-shirt.
"Alex?" she moaned. I looked down at my knees, squishing myself farther into the chair, desperately wishing to disappear. "Lord, have mercy!" Is there a God? But, why didn't he help me earlier? "Alex, what happened to you?" I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. My throat closed up. Jasper came to the rescue.
"This is her dad's doings," he hissed, teeth gritted.
"What?!"
"Mom! Just get help. Lu can't even walk." She nodded and waved over a few of her friends (she works here). They all stared at me, startled.
Two of them grabbed me under the arms tenderly and pulled me over to the gurney, setting me down softly. My back screamed in protest, causing me to whimper.
I passed out. Again.
FEAR
Rousing myself from a peaceful and dreamless sleep (now, how did that happen?), I forced my eyes open, studying my surroundings.
I was in a bright, white, sterile room. There were about twenty tubes sticking out of my arms and stomach. I had something in my nose. What the…? Where was I?
An annoying beep-beep…beep-beep... sound was pinging from my bedside. I turned my head towards it, examining it.
Huh… a heart monitor. It was measuring my pulse and the oxygen level of my blood. Now, why did I have that? Why would they make me have it?
Ok, now… What the heck? I could feel my body, I could tell how all my limbs and appendages worked and where they were, but… I was curiously numb. An anesthetic in one of the tubes, possibly? But, if so, what didn't they, whoever they were, want me to feel?
Thinking of all the options, I started to panic. Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep… The heart monitor picked up in pace.
The door of the room opened cautiously, and a man stuck his head in. Suddenly, irrationally, thinking it was Father, the heart monitor sped up even more. Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep… My breathing started getting really shallow, coming out in rapid gasps.
The man ran to my side, shushing me, trying to calm me. He touched my hand softly, and I jerked away from him. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep, gaspgaspgaspgaspgasp…
"It's ok, Al… It's ok… He won't hurt you anymore…," he whispered soothingly. I glared at him, still suspicious. He took in my face, thinking quickly. He realized something then. "You don't recognize me, do you?" I looked at him again, examining his features. He kinda looks like Father, and what I remember of Momma… I think I knew him from somewhere… I can't put my finger on it. I shook my head. "Do I look like someone you know?" I shrugged. "Is that a 'kind of'?" I nodded. "Alright…" It came to me unexpectedly. I reached up, trying not to pull the cords out, and touched his arm.
"Mark…," I mouthed, not quite able to speak properly. He smiled warmly, but his eyes were still sad.
"You do remember me." My pulse and breathing slowed down significantly now. "I'm sosorry, Al. So very sorry. I promised that I'd come back as soon as possible. I tried. But— Ow!" I flicked his head. "What was that for?"
"Oo…" That was my attempt at speaking. Wow… I coughed and tried again. "You don't nee…" I rolled my eyes, frustrated. I pointed at him, shook my head and made the sign 'sorry' in sign language. (Circling your right fist clockwise around your heart a few times.)
"But—," he started again. I made the 'stop' sign to cut him off. (Bringing your open right hand onto your left palm sharply.)
I quickly signed to him, saying, 'What's happening? Where am I?'
"Well, you're in the hospital."
'WHAT?!'
"Chill, Al. It's so you can get better. You need to. I mean, I talked to the doctor and got him to tell me what you need done, and wow. That list is pretty extensive. You've gotta be here."
'But, if I'm here, Father's gonna find me and he'll kill me!'
"I won't let him." He said this as he looked me straight in the eye, completely sincere.
'Promise?'
"Yes, Al, I do. I swear that he won't hurt you."
I could tell that he would do anything to help me.
I nodded.
We talked for a while after that, Mark explaining the situation as best as he could without setting me into a panic. He held my hand, rubbing his finger over my palm, back and forth, back and forth.
And even after that, we sat in a calm silence. I was comforted by his presence, knowing that he'll help me and that I'm out of there now. I slowly slipped out of awareness and let myself really sleep for one of the first times since Mom died, almost eight years ago.
As I came to, I picked up on a few things. I was lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding from my face, arms, legs, back and gut. Father was standing over me, knife in hand, laughing. My head throbbed angrily. I was shaking uncontrollably. Everything hurt so much, I wasn't able to feel anything at all. I was lightheaded. It felt like I was just floating in the air, staring at the blood.
Everything was red.
Red.
Blood.
Pain.
Fear.
This is my life. What had I done wrong? Surely something. But what? Was it simply because I was alive? Because I hadn't been able to save my mom?
I pushed myself onto my knees and vomited. Father kicked my side again. I could hear the sickening crunch of some ribs snapping.
Dear Lord, kill me now.
I passed out again.
FEAR
Waking up again, everything still hurt. I couldn't remember anything at all. Where was I? Was I dead yet? No, heaven didn't harm.
Jasper walked through the back door, gaping at me, concern in his eyes. I stretched my hand towards him, begging him to help me. Jazzy ran towards me, grasping my hand. He glared at Father.
"How could you do this to her? Your only daughter!" he snarled, livid. "You're drunk, aren't you? Really, really drunk."
"What's your point? Who cares if she's dead? She's just a piece of shit that doesn't deserve to live!" Father snapped.
"I do!" With that, he gently picked me up, putting me on his back and ran out the still-open back door. He is one of the top track runners at school, so he was able to sprint as fast as humanly possible with me on his back.
When we got into the actual town, there was a group of girls standing outside the Abercrombie & Fitch®. They spun around, gawking at us.
"Jasper!" one of them gasped. He just nodded to them curtly, still darting to the hospital at top speed. I buried my face into his shoulder, blushing. Utterly humiliated. Now everyone knew! Oh, gosh…
The cold, sterile air hit me, enveloping me in its chilly arms. Jazzy set me down on a chair as cautiously as he could.
I was so tired. So very exhausted. I hadn't gotten a good night sleep in years. My eyes slid shut wearily, begging me to fall asleep.
"Lu?" Jasper whispered. Shut up, Jazzy, please. I thought angrily. I wanna sleep. Leave me be.
"Lulu! Look at me. Are you awake?" he muttered urgently. I slowly opened my eyes. "Ok, good." He ran his fingers carefully down my face, looking sadly at my black eye. I smiled. The sadness in his eyes didn't leave.
"Jazzy? What's going to happen to me now?" I murmured. "I'm scared. My side hurts." I touched my right side, feeling how swollen it was, wincing.
"I don't really know, Al. But now, all you have to do is relax and heal." He grinned weakly.
"Jasper!" a lady called from behind him. I could have recognized that voice anywhere.
Jasper's mom.
My face burned, angry and humiliated. She was one of the nicest people I know. She gives me food whenever I looked hungry. Whenever I'm wandering around, looking upset, she takes me in for a while and we talk. It's always seemed like she suspected that something was going on at my house, but I don't want to confirm that! Oh, God, Father is going to kill me now for sure!
Mrs. Jones now is standing behind her son, looking at me. Her face is a mask of pain and confusion. Her mouth gapes open. She raises her hand to her right cheek, which is perfectly smooth. Unlike mine. Mine is still bleeding. I can feel the hot, sticky liquid dribbling down my face and neck, soaking into my ratty T-shirt.
"Alex?" she moaned. I looked down at my knees, squishing myself farther into the chair, desperately wishing to disappear. "Lord, have mercy!" Is there a God? But, why didn't he help me earlier? "Alex, what happened to you?" I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. My throat closed up. Jasper came to the rescue.
"This is her dad's doings," he hissed, teeth gritted.
"What?!"
"Mom! Just get help. Lu can't even walk." She nodded and waved over a few of her friends (she works here). They all stared at me, startled.
Two of them grabbed me under the arms tenderly and pulled me over to the gurney, setting me down softly. My back screamed in protest, causing me to whimper.
I passed out. Again.
FEAR
Rousing myself from a peaceful and dreamless sleep (now, how did that happen?), I forced my eyes open, studying my surroundings.
I was in a bright, white, sterile room. There were about twenty tubes sticking out of my arms and stomach. I had something in my nose. What the…? Where was I?
An annoying beep-beep…beep-beep... sound was pinging from my bedside. I turned my head towards it, examining it.
Huh… a heart monitor. It was measuring my pulse and the oxygen level of my blood. Now, why did I have that? Why would they make me have it?
Ok, now… What the heck? I could feel my body, I could tell how all my limbs and appendages worked and where they were, but… I was curiously numb. An anesthetic in one of the tubes, possibly? But, if so, what didn't they, whoever they were, want me to feel?
Thinking of all the options, I started to panic. Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep… The heart monitor picked up in pace.
The door of the room opened cautiously, and a man stuck his head in. Suddenly, irrationally, thinking it was Father, the heart monitor sped up even more. Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep… My breathing started getting really shallow, coming out in rapid gasps.
The man ran to my side, shushing me, trying to calm me. He touched my hand softly, and I jerked away from him. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep, gaspgaspgaspgaspgasp…
"It's ok, Al… It's ok… He won't hurt you anymore…," he whispered soothingly. I glared at him, still suspicious. He took in my face, thinking quickly. He realized something then. "You don't recognize me, do you?" I looked at him again, examining his features. He kinda looks like Father, and what I remember of Momma… I think I knew him from somewhere… I can't put my finger on it. I shook my head. "Do I look like someone you know?" I shrugged. "Is that a 'kind of'?" I nodded. "Alright…" It came to me unexpectedly. I reached up, trying not to pull the cords out, and touched his arm.
"Mark…," I mouthed, not quite able to speak properly. He smiled warmly, but his eyes were still sad.
"You do remember me." My pulse and breathing slowed down significantly now. "I'm sosorry, Al. So very sorry. I promised that I'd come back as soon as possible. I tried. But— Ow!" I flicked his head. "What was that for?"
"Oo…" That was my attempt at speaking. Wow… I coughed and tried again. "You don't nee…" I rolled my eyes, frustrated. I pointed at him, shook my head and made the sign 'sorry' in sign language. (Circling your right fist clockwise around your heart a few times.)
"But—," he started again. I made the 'stop' sign to cut him off. (Bringing your open right hand onto your left palm sharply.)
I quickly signed to him, saying, 'What's happening? Where am I?'
"Well, you're in the hospital."
'WHAT?!'
"Chill, Al. It's so you can get better. You need to. I mean, I talked to the doctor and got him to tell me what you need done, and wow. That list is pretty extensive. You've gotta be here."
'But, if I'm here, Father's gonna find me and he'll kill me!'
"I won't let him." He said this as he looked me straight in the eye, completely sincere.
'Promise?'
"Yes, Al, I do. I swear that he won't hurt you."
I could tell that he would do anything to help me.
I nodded.
We talked for a while after that, Mark explaining the situation as best as he could without setting me into a panic. He held my hand, rubbing his finger over my palm, back and forth, back and forth.
And even after that, we sat in a calm silence. I was comforted by his presence, knowing that he'll help me and that I'm out of there now. I slowly slipped out of awareness and let myself really sleep for one of the first times since Mom died, almost eight years ago.
Ch:4
Death is peaceful
Over the next few days, I faded in and out of consciousness, only waking when the nurses allowed me to. Every time that I woke, Mark and Jazzy were in the room with me.
But, on the tenth day at the Kalispell Regional Medical Center, Father came in.
(After Jazzy took me away, Father went missing. The police went over to my house to get him, but he had disappeared. Vanished. Poof… Crap.)
Today was the one day that I was alone when I woke up. The nurses only came in six times. To give me and take away the food. Maybe seven, to give me pain meds.
The last few nights, I've been having horrible dreams. In all of them, Father comes into my hospital room and kills me. I normally wake up screaming and the nurses have to come running to give me sedatives.
I glanced at the clock. It was two in the afternoon. My eyes were drooping heavily from the pain meds Nurse Holly gave me. The annoying beeping from the heart monitor slowed. The stupid puffs from the respirator became quieter… and… quieter…
As… I… slowly…
Drifted… off…
FEAR
My eyes opened gradually. There was a creaking sound off to my left. Oh, no. I'm asleep, aren't I? Yep, I am. And I'm having one of my drug-induced nightmares. And now Father is going to 'kill' me and then the nurses will come running and wake me up. I hope I can take another day/night of this.
I looked to the left, and saw the window opening. Huh… how strange. He normally comes in through the closet that's right next to the window. Oh, well.
"You!" he snarled, looking at me malevolently. He started to walk towards me. I just continued staring at him flatly, waiting to wake up.
He grabbed my leg, pressing down on it. Hard. I could feel the bone bending.
Again, how strange. It hurt. A lot. In general, it twinges a little but this was an aching pain, like when I had been living with him.
He lowered his face so it was just an inch from mine, still holding my leg. He smelled the way I remember.
Odd. In my usual dreams, he smells like the ammonia he had once tried to kill me with. But now, the horrid smell wafting through my nose was of alcohol, sweat, a few drugs and his usual spearmint gum.
"Do you want to know why I did this to you and your brother?" he whispered menacingly. I scowled. Why wasn't I waking up? Generally he was faster than this. And it was no where near this life-like. Why was my mind doing this to me? "Let's start with your beloved brother. He wanted a sibling. So your mom and I decided, why not? So we had you." He pushed harder. I cringed. "And I despise you. You made Alyssa die. You didn't press the call button when you knew she was dying. You ungrateful little bitch!"
All the guilt I've been forcing myself to forget over the years since Mom died came back to me in waves, crushing me, suffocating me. My chest ached, and I couldn't breathe. Mom's face filled my mind until she was the only thing I could see. The lone feelings that held me to the present, to the dream, were the smell of spearmint gum and the almost overwhelming ache of my leg.
No, no, no, no, no! This is all wrong! This can't be a dream! My mind wasn't this cruel! My mind always tried to protect me!
I compelled Mom out of my thoughts and focused on Father. He looked too real. His smell was too real. The pain was too real.
Everything was too real.
My mind worked frantically, trying to piece everything together. He didn't come in the normal way. The smell, his face, the pain…
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
CRAP!
This isn't a dream! This is real!
Father saw something he didn't like in my eyes. Terror and fear. He rammed my leg into the bed harder than ever, shattering the bone. I could feel it sticking out of my skin. I couldn't help myself.
I shrieked.
Father slapped me across the face, shutting me up. He pulled out a can of something from a bag that I hadn't noticed.
"D'you know what this is, you little piece of shit?" he asked me, his voice almost inaudible. He passed the can under my nose briefly, letting me smell the fluid that was sloshing around inside.
Kerosene.
The strong, sickly scent of the lighter fluid filled my nose, making me choke.
"Father, please…," I whimpered pathetically, begging. He laughed maniacally, unable to stop for about thirty seconds.
When he stopped cackling, it was an abrupt kind of stop. Like, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-stop.
The panic I had been forcing out of myself was rushing through me, like a tsunami. I couldn't draw a breath and my head started to spin and my heart was pounding and I felt like puking and the pain made my ears roar and my vision started to tunnel.
My bed was wet.
Why was that?
Oh, right. Kerosene.
My vision, which was already compacting, turned off.
It was a weird feeling. I could hear and smell, but I couldn't see.
The slopping of the liquid.
The cloying smell of it.
The gum. Spearmint.
The click of a lighter…
The heat of a flame…
I passed out.
FEAR
I'm dead. Right? There's no way I could've survived being burned alive…
FEAR
I'm coming, Mom. We'll be together again soon. You don't blame me, like I do, do you? Mom, you love me, don't you?...
Over the next few days, I faded in and out of consciousness, only waking when the nurses allowed me to. Every time that I woke, Mark and Jazzy were in the room with me.
But, on the tenth day at the Kalispell Regional Medical Center, Father came in.
(After Jazzy took me away, Father went missing. The police went over to my house to get him, but he had disappeared. Vanished. Poof… Crap.)
Today was the one day that I was alone when I woke up. The nurses only came in six times. To give me and take away the food. Maybe seven, to give me pain meds.
The last few nights, I've been having horrible dreams. In all of them, Father comes into my hospital room and kills me. I normally wake up screaming and the nurses have to come running to give me sedatives.
I glanced at the clock. It was two in the afternoon. My eyes were drooping heavily from the pain meds Nurse Holly gave me. The annoying beeping from the heart monitor slowed. The stupid puffs from the respirator became quieter… and… quieter…
As… I… slowly…
Drifted… off…
FEAR
My eyes opened gradually. There was a creaking sound off to my left. Oh, no. I'm asleep, aren't I? Yep, I am. And I'm having one of my drug-induced nightmares. And now Father is going to 'kill' me and then the nurses will come running and wake me up. I hope I can take another day/night of this.
I looked to the left, and saw the window opening. Huh… how strange. He normally comes in through the closet that's right next to the window. Oh, well.
"You!" he snarled, looking at me malevolently. He started to walk towards me. I just continued staring at him flatly, waiting to wake up.
He grabbed my leg, pressing down on it. Hard. I could feel the bone bending.
Again, how strange. It hurt. A lot. In general, it twinges a little but this was an aching pain, like when I had been living with him.
He lowered his face so it was just an inch from mine, still holding my leg. He smelled the way I remember.
Odd. In my usual dreams, he smells like the ammonia he had once tried to kill me with. But now, the horrid smell wafting through my nose was of alcohol, sweat, a few drugs and his usual spearmint gum.
"Do you want to know why I did this to you and your brother?" he whispered menacingly. I scowled. Why wasn't I waking up? Generally he was faster than this. And it was no where near this life-like. Why was my mind doing this to me? "Let's start with your beloved brother. He wanted a sibling. So your mom and I decided, why not? So we had you." He pushed harder. I cringed. "And I despise you. You made Alyssa die. You didn't press the call button when you knew she was dying. You ungrateful little bitch!"
All the guilt I've been forcing myself to forget over the years since Mom died came back to me in waves, crushing me, suffocating me. My chest ached, and I couldn't breathe. Mom's face filled my mind until she was the only thing I could see. The lone feelings that held me to the present, to the dream, were the smell of spearmint gum and the almost overwhelming ache of my leg.
No, no, no, no, no! This is all wrong! This can't be a dream! My mind wasn't this cruel! My mind always tried to protect me!
I compelled Mom out of my thoughts and focused on Father. He looked too real. His smell was too real. The pain was too real.
Everything was too real.
My mind worked frantically, trying to piece everything together. He didn't come in the normal way. The smell, his face, the pain…
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
CRAP!
This isn't a dream! This is real!
Father saw something he didn't like in my eyes. Terror and fear. He rammed my leg into the bed harder than ever, shattering the bone. I could feel it sticking out of my skin. I couldn't help myself.
I shrieked.
Father slapped me across the face, shutting me up. He pulled out a can of something from a bag that I hadn't noticed.
"D'you know what this is, you little piece of shit?" he asked me, his voice almost inaudible. He passed the can under my nose briefly, letting me smell the fluid that was sloshing around inside.
Kerosene.
The strong, sickly scent of the lighter fluid filled my nose, making me choke.
"Father, please…," I whimpered pathetically, begging. He laughed maniacally, unable to stop for about thirty seconds.
When he stopped cackling, it was an abrupt kind of stop. Like, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-stop.
The panic I had been forcing out of myself was rushing through me, like a tsunami. I couldn't draw a breath and my head started to spin and my heart was pounding and I felt like puking and the pain made my ears roar and my vision started to tunnel.
My bed was wet.
Why was that?
Oh, right. Kerosene.
My vision, which was already compacting, turned off.
It was a weird feeling. I could hear and smell, but I couldn't see.
The slopping of the liquid.
The cloying smell of it.
The gum. Spearmint.
The click of a lighter…
The heat of a flame…
I passed out.
FEAR
I'm dead. Right? There's no way I could've survived being burned alive…
FEAR
I'm coming, Mom. We'll be together again soon. You don't blame me, like I do, do you? Mom, you love me, don't you?...
Ch:5
My long lost summer
The bright white light seared through my eyelids. The rhythmic beeping and puffs became louder and louder. I was alive… and in the hospital. How did this happen?
Something warm touched my face. What was that? Someone was talking quietly. Who was that? I couldn't tell who was talking.
I tried to open my eyes, but they felt like lead. I groaned, trying to move my hand to force my eyes open. Again, it didn't work.
Finally, the words made sense. "Alex? Are you awake?" I scrunched my nose briefly. "Oh, thank God." Something squeaked, and when Mark spoke again, his voice was directed away from me, somewhere off to my right. "She's awake now!"
I could feel the heaviness of my body lifting gradually. Eventually, I signed to Mark, 'What's going on?' He didn't reply. Two in the afternoon. Ok… My left leg itched near my ankle. My eyes opened and, before anyone could stop me, I reached to try to itch it. I glanced at the clock quickly.
There wasn't anything there.
I threw back the covers, staring at where my leg should be.
There wasn't anything there.
My leg was gone. Just below my knee of my left leg. It just wasn't there.
I stared in disbelief, my mind rejecting the idea of my leg being gone. Mark and Jazzy and everyone else in the room spluttered, trying to explain what happened. But after a while, everyone stopped, and the silence filled the room.
The whiteness and silence of the room started to suffocate me.
Beep-beep-beep-beep… The heart monitor sped up again and the respirator wasn't puffing into my nose fast enough. My head began to spin and my stomach rolled unpleasantly.
I laid back, sinking into my pillows, trying to stay conscious.
My eyes started to fill up with tears, which I pushed away. I looked from face to face, one of the most obvious questions on mine.
What happened?
Mark put his had on my shoulder, sitting on the bed next to the leg that's still there. He sighed, but stared at me. I grabbed his had from my shoulder, sitting up, begging with my eyes.
"Lu, please calm down," he whispered. With his other hand, he touched my cheek until my heart slowed, which took about two agonizingly long minutes. "Ok, so, do you remember anything about that night?" I nodded, noticing how he didn't say 'last night'. How long did they have to keep me out? "Can you tell us?" And I did.
My hands moved faster than ever as I told them about the incident. That took two and a half minutes. They all gazed at me in astonishment as I signed this all to them and a nurse translated in a hollow voice.
Mark opened and closed his mouth a couple times before he could find his voice. "No joke?" he asked hoarsely. I shook my head. He sighed again. "Well, that'd explain it." I tugged on his sleeve. "Yeah?"
'How long has it been? What day is it?'
Jazzy came up behind him. "It's been two weeks, Al," he muttered rather reluctantly.
I worked to figure that out. I've been in the hospital for 24 days.
It's July 23rd.
Half of my summer was gone.
And I'd been unconscious for most of it.
I tried to wrap my head around this.
I'm missing my left leg.
I'm going to be in the hospital for the rest of the summer, most likely.
Crap.
I started shaking. Hard. I felt like I was going to puke. I wanted to cry. But I didn't.
Because it's a weakness.
And Father wouldn't like that.
"Al…?" Mark asked tentatively.
"What happens now?" I whispered, my voice sore from disuse. It shook and cracked, sounding as crappy as I felt.
"Well…," Mrs. Jones said. "We have to continue treating your… scars and burns." Those last three words seemed like they took a lot of effort for her to say. "We will get a prosthetic leg for you, and you'll have to learn how to walk and such with it. I think that we'll have to put you through a psych exam, and give you whatever treatment is prescribed. This is going to be a difficult journey, Alexandria. There's no denying that. But, we're going to help you. We promise."
Tears started filling up my eyes, and they burned, screaming at me to let them fall. I scrubbed them away.
I won't cry.
I can't.
I refuse.
I set my face, making it look blank and indifferent. I clenched my jaw, pushing away the tears and terror that threatened to overwhelm me.
I was set. I could keep up this façade for quite some time if I didn't get any sympathy.
But, then…
Mark hugged me. He held me close and murmured comforting things, like how he was never going to leave me and how I was going to live with him and Ava (his wife) and his two sons (Omar, adopted and 10 years old, and Griffin, biological and 10 months old). He said that all was going to be ok and I wouldn't have to worry about Father ever again.
Alright, I'll admit it. I was sobbing. All the walls I'd built around myself came crashing down at the first word out of his mouth. I was bawling because of how scared I was and how much I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be safe and loved and I never wanted to have to deal with Father again, but it was so gosh darn hard. Father had led me to believe that it was impossible for anyone to care about me.
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. / Where there is hatred, let me sow love; / where there is injury, pardon; / where there is doubt, faith; / where there is despair, hope; / where there is darkness, light; / and where there is sadness, joy. / O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek / to be consoled as to console; / to be understood as to understand; / to be loved as to love. / For it is in giving that we receive; / it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; / and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen," Mark recited, the familiar words soothing. Mom used to say that prayer every night before dinner.
We sat around the table, holding hands. Father was 'Dad' back then. Mark was looking glum because of the large workload. Mom was serene even with a stressful work day, loads of chores left to be done, and the chemo that she had the day before.
She took a deep breath, exhaled, and seemed even calmer than just a moment ago.
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace…"
And I came back to reality. My chest ached, and I tried to cling to the memory. To Mom's voice, to the smell of the food, to the feel of Mommy's hand in mine, to the kind look on Daddy's face…
The deep-set, horrifying pain in my chest and head seared. And that only made me cry harder. It felt like I never was going to stop.
Mark continued to hold me. Jazzy sat next to the bed, stroked my hand, and refused to leave. Mrs. Jones kept them well-fed, and made sure I had plenty of pain medications and nutrients in my IV tube.
It was near six that night when my tears finally slowed and quieted, when my gasping finally turned to sighs and then to calm breathing.
The meds in my IV made me slip away…to one of the… first real sleeps I'd had… since… Mom passed away…
The bright white light seared through my eyelids. The rhythmic beeping and puffs became louder and louder. I was alive… and in the hospital. How did this happen?
Something warm touched my face. What was that? Someone was talking quietly. Who was that? I couldn't tell who was talking.
I tried to open my eyes, but they felt like lead. I groaned, trying to move my hand to force my eyes open. Again, it didn't work.
Finally, the words made sense. "Alex? Are you awake?" I scrunched my nose briefly. "Oh, thank God." Something squeaked, and when Mark spoke again, his voice was directed away from me, somewhere off to my right. "She's awake now!"
I could feel the heaviness of my body lifting gradually. Eventually, I signed to Mark, 'What's going on?' He didn't reply. Two in the afternoon. Ok… My left leg itched near my ankle. My eyes opened and, before anyone could stop me, I reached to try to itch it. I glanced at the clock quickly.
There wasn't anything there.
I threw back the covers, staring at where my leg should be.
There wasn't anything there.
My leg was gone. Just below my knee of my left leg. It just wasn't there.
I stared in disbelief, my mind rejecting the idea of my leg being gone. Mark and Jazzy and everyone else in the room spluttered, trying to explain what happened. But after a while, everyone stopped, and the silence filled the room.
The whiteness and silence of the room started to suffocate me.
Beep-beep-beep-beep… The heart monitor sped up again and the respirator wasn't puffing into my nose fast enough. My head began to spin and my stomach rolled unpleasantly.
I laid back, sinking into my pillows, trying to stay conscious.
My eyes started to fill up with tears, which I pushed away. I looked from face to face, one of the most obvious questions on mine.
What happened?
Mark put his had on my shoulder, sitting on the bed next to the leg that's still there. He sighed, but stared at me. I grabbed his had from my shoulder, sitting up, begging with my eyes.
"Lu, please calm down," he whispered. With his other hand, he touched my cheek until my heart slowed, which took about two agonizingly long minutes. "Ok, so, do you remember anything about that night?" I nodded, noticing how he didn't say 'last night'. How long did they have to keep me out? "Can you tell us?" And I did.
My hands moved faster than ever as I told them about the incident. That took two and a half minutes. They all gazed at me in astonishment as I signed this all to them and a nurse translated in a hollow voice.
Mark opened and closed his mouth a couple times before he could find his voice. "No joke?" he asked hoarsely. I shook my head. He sighed again. "Well, that'd explain it." I tugged on his sleeve. "Yeah?"
'How long has it been? What day is it?'
Jazzy came up behind him. "It's been two weeks, Al," he muttered rather reluctantly.
I worked to figure that out. I've been in the hospital for 24 days.
It's July 23rd.
Half of my summer was gone.
And I'd been unconscious for most of it.
I tried to wrap my head around this.
I'm missing my left leg.
I'm going to be in the hospital for the rest of the summer, most likely.
Crap.
I started shaking. Hard. I felt like I was going to puke. I wanted to cry. But I didn't.
Because it's a weakness.
And Father wouldn't like that.
"Al…?" Mark asked tentatively.
"What happens now?" I whispered, my voice sore from disuse. It shook and cracked, sounding as crappy as I felt.
"Well…," Mrs. Jones said. "We have to continue treating your… scars and burns." Those last three words seemed like they took a lot of effort for her to say. "We will get a prosthetic leg for you, and you'll have to learn how to walk and such with it. I think that we'll have to put you through a psych exam, and give you whatever treatment is prescribed. This is going to be a difficult journey, Alexandria. There's no denying that. But, we're going to help you. We promise."
Tears started filling up my eyes, and they burned, screaming at me to let them fall. I scrubbed them away.
I won't cry.
I can't.
I refuse.
I set my face, making it look blank and indifferent. I clenched my jaw, pushing away the tears and terror that threatened to overwhelm me.
I was set. I could keep up this façade for quite some time if I didn't get any sympathy.
But, then…
Mark hugged me. He held me close and murmured comforting things, like how he was never going to leave me and how I was going to live with him and Ava (his wife) and his two sons (Omar, adopted and 10 years old, and Griffin, biological and 10 months old). He said that all was going to be ok and I wouldn't have to worry about Father ever again.
Alright, I'll admit it. I was sobbing. All the walls I'd built around myself came crashing down at the first word out of his mouth. I was bawling because of how scared I was and how much I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be safe and loved and I never wanted to have to deal with Father again, but it was so gosh darn hard. Father had led me to believe that it was impossible for anyone to care about me.
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. / Where there is hatred, let me sow love; / where there is injury, pardon; / where there is doubt, faith; / where there is despair, hope; / where there is darkness, light; / and where there is sadness, joy. / O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek / to be consoled as to console; / to be understood as to understand; / to be loved as to love. / For it is in giving that we receive; / it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; / and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen," Mark recited, the familiar words soothing. Mom used to say that prayer every night before dinner.
We sat around the table, holding hands. Father was 'Dad' back then. Mark was looking glum because of the large workload. Mom was serene even with a stressful work day, loads of chores left to be done, and the chemo that she had the day before.
She took a deep breath, exhaled, and seemed even calmer than just a moment ago.
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace…"
And I came back to reality. My chest ached, and I tried to cling to the memory. To Mom's voice, to the smell of the food, to the feel of Mommy's hand in mine, to the kind look on Daddy's face…
The deep-set, horrifying pain in my chest and head seared. And that only made me cry harder. It felt like I never was going to stop.
Mark continued to hold me. Jazzy sat next to the bed, stroked my hand, and refused to leave. Mrs. Jones kept them well-fed, and made sure I had plenty of pain medications and nutrients in my IV tube.
It was near six that night when my tears finally slowed and quieted, when my gasping finally turned to sighs and then to calm breathing.
The meds in my IV made me slip away…to one of the… first real sleeps I'd had… since… Mom passed away…
