Gone with an Angel

Chapter Two:

I crept through the house on silent padded feet. It wasn’t like there was many places to be. It was one story and only had about four rooms, not including the closets or hallways or minor things like that. I knew he was here somewhere, he only left the house if it promised something for him, such as alcohol or drugs or any of the other things he surely got into. I didn't call for him; I knew he would find me soon enough, and then Day 3,861 of horror could start. I had gone since I was seven years old living in fear. I didn't remember a happy childhood. I didn't even remember my mother. I remembered my sister of course, but I felt her fading away from me every day. All families have their problems, but mine? I didn't know if you could even call us a family anymore.

My mother died when I was seven years old. She was thirty-nine. My baby sister was only two.

He did it. He killed her.

My father took my mother away from me, away from the world. He took away any chance of a childhood my sister and I had. He took our lives away from us that night, too. Ever since my mother's death, I just haven't been the same. She took a part of me with her, and as it turns out- she was probably the only one left who could save me.

We were only the walking dead. Alive in a physical sense, but dead in mental and emotional senses.

Screaming. My feet slam against the hardwood floor, making a break towards the sound. Animals have a natural instinct to run away from the sound of fear, I guess when I was created, I wasn't granted that instinct. I run, slamming down the hallway, until I reach the partially cracked door.

"Please...Please..." my mother's frantic voice. “I’m sorry, it was a mistake, I won't ever be so-"

Slap. He hit her. My vision is limited from the small crack in the door, but I assume it was a baseball bat. The metal one we used to use to play softball. He used my toy to do something so cruel. I don’t understand. Why would Daddy hit Mommy? Tears start to cloud my vision as I frantically swiped them away, trying to get as good a view as I can, fighting to understand.

She's fine I assume, she's still capable of crying. For a minute, that's enough to make my spirits lift. They were just having a fight, they would be okay, and we'd wake up to Mommy's famous pancakes for breakfast tomorrow, and Daddy will smile at me while holding his coffee. But it was the most heartbreaking sound to hear my Mommy cry. I may not understand what was happening, but I had a warning bell that told me I should stay quiet and unseen.

I was hopeful things would be okay, but my mind told me otherwise. Something was going horribly wrong, something life changing. I felt fear coursing through my veins, spreading it's cold tentacles through my body.

Click. Slam. Strangled, gargled scream. Thud. Mommy? I had to protect her, so I scream and burst through the door. My father has eyes like a monster, as he pinpoints me, grasping a silver gun at his side. Neither of us move. I lower my eyes to the lump of person on the floor, and throw myself at her as rivers of tears pour out of my eyes. "Mommy!" I scream. I screech and cry and made horrid guttural noises as I mourned. I'm seven, not stupid. I feel around for a pulse, but I'm only welcomed by the already still corpse beginning to get cold.

She was gone. My life was only beginning to fall apart.

By the time I manage to raise my eyes to my father, I wish I could kill him too. How could he? Why would he? What was going on? "Daddy?"

My father pulled me up by my night gown so I'm dangling off of the ground, and forces me to look into his eyes. They are as black as coal, showing no feeling but pure and cold-hearted anger. The eyes of a monster. A murderer.  His eyes are blood shot and his hands are tight on the neck of my baby blue knee-length night gown. I try to squirm, but it makes no difference in his strong arms.

 "Don't you ever say a word about this to anyone," He growls at me, "not your teachers, not your friends, not anyone who asks. You hear me?" He shook me. Who was this man? Certainly not my Daddy I knew so well before.

"Y-yes sir..." I manage in a squeak. I still can't process what all was going on. He releases me and I drop to the hard floor. He drags me out of the room and I hear the final click of the lock behind me.

I lay on the floor listening to my Father's thumping footsteps pacing across the room. I lay in shock and confusion, but I finally managed to get up and return to Shaylee, my little sister still unknowing blissfully asleep in the room on the far side of the house.

I didn't know where he was. I could only hope he was asleep in the bedroom, which would only stall what was later to come. But at least it might’ve given me a few chances longer left to live. You never knew what would happen with him. One night, he may nearly kill you.

Another he may just leave you with nasty scratches, bruises, and the occasional bite marks. He does it tactfully, in the sense that the markings of his anger and whatever has gone wrong inside his head, don't show. I have marks on my back, where a shirt is always covering. Or on my neck where my long hair sweeps across. Or on my tail bone, the backs of my legs, or the crooks of my elbows.

He had more opportunities for violence in winter, since warmer clothes equals less skin to show. He had made it clear what would happen to me if I told anyone, or let anyone see. Sometimes I wished he would just end it already. Some nights, I may get off easy with just verbal abuse, but usually it was the former that happens.

There wasn't much to do but wait. I lived in fear. I didn't want to escape to my music, because then I might miss hearing his warning footsteps. The only television was found in his room. I was no artist and there certainly wasn't anything special about me, so I didn't have many choices on how to occupy my time. My full time job and hobby was waiting.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, until something ended his abuse, or something ended me ...