Another: The Class of 1999

Chapter 15 - Out

I was small and thin for my age. It didn't happen all the time, but as I grew older, if turned into a more constant thing, starting off small and getting bigger. Gradually, I'd wake up with new set burns and bruises, but only a small amount turned into scars whilst the rest faded. I spent lots of summer days in turtleneck, missed out on swimming trips, growing up and maturing whilst my classmates were living carefree lives.

My mother forced me to miss several days of school so nobody saw the markings, and on the days I did go to school I had to get back home as soon as possible once lessons had finished. If I didn't, I'd pay.

I can't remember the last time I went to the park with my friends, who were slowly slipping away because of the distance my mother was infiicting through my fears. Invites to friends houses had to be declined; it got the point where I had begun saying no before even asking my mother. Eventually, the invites stopped altogether.

It wasn't often my mum went food shopping - just alcohol shopping. Sometimes, she'd go out for meals with her friends. Ingredients in the house were limited. I think it's because one time she went out so I cooked for myself, and she had been jealous of what I had made without her.

What about my father in all this? Well, he was oblivious to my suffering until my mother's rage turned to him. He was overworked and underpaid, and ended up spending fourteen hours a day at the furniture manufacturing office, before coming home, sleeping, and then returning back to work. He slept all the way through his days off, so it didn't even feel like he'd been off work at all.

He learnt about my mother's abuse when I was eleven. I don't actually remember the events myself, just that it had been a particularly bad night. The details had been explained to me later. My dad came home early one night, to find me laying on the floor, slipping in and out of consciousness, huge fresh markings on my back, whilst my mother was sat on the sofa, wine glass in one hand, wine bottle in the other. All I remember was the feeling - so numb that I physically couldn't feel anything anymore. Surely I hadn't done anything wrong to deserve it that day. How could I have displayed my mum? She said she wanted time alone, so I had kept out of her way and not spoken to her all evening. Apparently, that was the wrong thing for me to do. Yet if I had gone to her and asked if she needed a drink, or to ask what was wrong, she'd have complained at that. It was a game with no rule book, my mother's game, and she'd always be the winner.

When my father found out, naturally he was furious at his wife, and guilty for being blind to what was happening on his own home. He threatened to leave, take me with him and call the police. So my mother did what she did best - she hit my father.

Her excuse was that she was at home all the time by herself, taking care of me, and she was fed up. She called my dad lazy, saying he didn't do anything to contribute to the family or the household, and that we were dragging her down and making her feel miserable. Painting herself as a victim.

Of course, my father was ashamed that he was being physically abused by his own wife. He didn't want to appear weak or vulnerable, so of course he couldn't face telling the police or his work colleagues that his wife was beating him. So he kept quiet, giving my mum the perfect opportunity to hurl more emotional abuse his way too. He ended up becoming an alcoholic himself, working ridiculous lengthy shifts that even the boss said were unneeded. If he wasn't working he was drinking at a range of bars, or. sleeping, or wandering around town. He didn't want to come home.

It was my second year of middle school when something finally got done about it. I had been deprived of proper sleep for about a week, and I was exhausted. I had been sleeping in a lot and it had been annoying my mother, so soon enough I got scared of falling asleep and would stay up late at night or force myself to wake up early and curl in bed for hours, shuddering, listening to the world pass by.