We arrive in front of my crumbling house. I tumble out of the car and start walking up the jagged steps.
“Remember, you can come back any day after school. I’ll always be there.”
I turn back to the car and hug him goodbye, hoarsely whispering “Thank you.”
The dense smell of alcohol greets me at the door. I force myself into the kitchen and start cleaning up the new pieces of glass my father has strewn along the floor. I straighten the last picture still on our wall and grab my bag, heading to the stairs. My father waits for me blocking the entrance. I see from the drunken look on his face he has been trying to treat his ongoing pain.
“Hey, dad. How was your day?” I ask calmly, noticing the steak knife he clutches in his hands.
“Oh...” He distractedly looks to the ceiling as if he forgot what he was about to say. “Oh yes, you.” He jerks the knife to my throat. “You are late. What could you be doing that takes so long to get home, my darling?”
“I had to finish a… test.” I tried to look bored.
“No… you did not!” he is running at me now, anger his energy. Letting out growls each time he jabs the knife in the air. I dodge as many knife jabs as I can but even with all my efforts the last one catches my forearm. Through gritted teeth I let out a strangled scream. It cuts deep enough to see the shine of my bone. The wound is quickly filled with thick blood, slowing as it pushes over the sides and drips down my arm. My father stumbles back, while he realizes what he has done. His eyes soften. I see recognition spill across his face, as he comes out from the depths of his thoughts, back to reality. He reaches to me as if trying to undo the gap in my arm. I am almost tempted to stay, hug him and pull him out of the darkness the rest of the way, but I know he could be pulled back down much faster. I burst past him up the stairs. I don’t hear his footsteps toppling after me.
I pile up a barrier of furniture in front of my door. Grabbing a shirt from my closet I wrap it tightly around my arm to slow the flow of blood. Jolts of pain shoot up my arm. I breathe in sharply tapping my foot hard to distract myself from the throbbing. I tear the excess material that is now soaked with blood and rinse my arm under the tap of my bathroom. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to forget the searing pain of the cold water so deep in my arm. The diluted, red water swirls down the pipe. I rewrap my arm and watch the circle of blood gradually grow.
The mirror reflects my frail, torn up body. My bare skin is discolored and scarred from my father, and myself. Cuts from broken bottles decorate my body. My face is almost untouched except for the raw slit above my eyebrow. I have to protect it to be able to go to school without questions. Usually, I pull my arms up as a shield. Also the reason I wear the longest gloves I can find.
I feel dread fill my middle. I will never have my perfect family back, or be able to be normal. I won’t be truly loved by a parent ever again. I can’t even stop upsetting my dad. We can never be that happy again. I laugh at myself. I am such a pathetic little girl. I only manage to disappoint others. I bite my cheek hard to stop from crying, but I feel my tears sting my swollen cheeks still forced into a smile. For some reason instead of making me feel more optimistic, the smile makes more hot tears pool in my eyes. I breathe in hard and scold myself for feeling so sorry for myself.
I still love my father. I know if I try hard enough I can pull him out of this monster. I hope I can bring him back to our happy time, close to the happiness we had with my mother alive. I am all he has. He is all I have. I will help him get through another night.
