Wandering Alone

Chapter 3

I slowly stepped out of Katie's car, wincing as the scabs on my legs cracked.  I could already feel the warm blood trickling down my legs.  Thank God for black jeans.

"Bye Mrs. Russo!"  I yelled over my shoulder, waving with one hand. "Bye Kat!"  Katie smiled as the car drove away, but I couldn't help but note the look of fear in her eyes.  I didn't blame her.  I was scared to walk into my house, too.  What if my step dad was there?  I couldn't face him if he was.

I glanced at the drive way; no cars.  So far so good.  I made my way to the door as fast as I could, slipping my key into the lock.  The door creaked open, revealing the small corridor on the inside.  The walls were painted a dark green, and on the far wall there was a coffee table.  Pictures of my mom and step dad cluttered the walls, but not a single one contained me.

I silently slipped through the door, making sure to close and lock it.  As I slipped down the hallway, I heard no sound.  Maybe I was all alone.  That wouldn't be unusual.  I climbed up the carpeted stars, glancing down behind me every so often.  Finally, my white door was in sight.  I turned the nob and ran in, slamming it behind me.  My bed caught my fall as I let gravity take over.  I sighed in content as I laid there, just begging the pain to go away.

This was all routine with me.  In about a week the pain would be gone and, if I was lucky, I wouldn't see either of my parents for about a month.  Was this even legal?  For my parents to leave a fifteen year old alone for all that time?  I didn't care, I loved being alone.  It defiantly was better then spending "quality time with my family."  Every time I did, I ended up being hurt.  Physically or emotionally, it didn't matter.

Pain is still pain whether you can see it or not.  Personally, I believe the pain you can't see is more painful.  A cut or bruise would go away, where as an emotional scar would always be there.  It would haunt you for the rest of you life, never letting you forget.  Every action would revolve around the pain.  Every decision would be based on if you would get hurt more.  You would never be the same.  No matter how hard you tried to forget, you wouldn't be able to.  I remember a time when I was five years old.  Still so young, but the memory shines bright in my head.

"Daddy?"  I asked, my voice small and scared.  I turned the door nob, the gold metal stinging my skin.  The door creaked open, revealing my parents room.  The fan above the bed was on, spinning around and around and hitting me with cold blasts of air.  The desk had papers piled high, either from my mothers work or my dads.  The dresser stood on the left wall, brown and shiny.

The bed was quite large; king size.  The brown bed posts stood in the air, draping the white canopy over the bed.  The cream quilt had pink flowers on it, it was my favorite blanket in the world.  Me and my parents would snuggle up in it on cold winter nights, or when I was scared of a thunder storm.  I took a step forward, the floor boards creaking under my feet.  Suddenly, the quilt moved.  My eyes widened as my ears filled with grunting noises and moans.

"Harder, Josh."  Someone muttered, a voice I did not recognize. 

"Daddy?" I asked again, this time louder.  Suddenly it was silent, and everything was still.  In the blink of an eye a naked lady I didn't know shot out of the bed and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut.  My dad sat up, staring at me with a red face.

"Demitra, I thought you were asleep!"  He yelled, attempting to cover his naked body.  I gasped, my little mind not comprehending what had happened.  All I knew was it was bad.  I turned to run, my teddy bear slipping from my grasp.  I ran all the way up the stars, into my room, and into my bed, flinging the covers over me.  I sat there, shaking, wondering what had happened.  Who was that lady?  Where was my mother?  Why was this happening?