Broken Pieces

CHAPTER {3}

She shoved two finger down my throat and I immediately gag. I could feel the vomit coming up my throat and my mother shoved my head into the toilet. She had her hand wrapped around my hair in a tight fist, pulling at my sculp.

Tears ran down my cheeks as she repeated shoving her fingers down my throat.

Just thinking about that makes me want to vomit. This house, this room is filled with bad memories. Having to live here alone will be much more traumatizing than I expected.

I go out of the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I then went to my other cleaning supplies, tucked the under my shoulders and hopped out of the room. I went from behind the stairs and began to make my way up the stairs.

I don't know how I did but I did. One second I was at the bottom of the stairs and now I'm at the top. I did my usual cleaning routine. I start with my mother's bedroom then the upstairs bathroom, then the guest room. Then I'd make my way down the stairs and start with the kitchen then the living room.

When I went into her room the strongest smell of weed hit me in the nose. I was used to it so it didn't make me cough like a normal person would. She had the biggest room and nicest.

A queen sized bed with silk sheets. A walk in closet and an ensuite bathroom. I start by opening her windows. It would be dangerous but we live in the safest part of the city. The richer side.

Before I started cleaning I went to check on the money. I go to the closet and went to the farthest corner and slowly knelt down. There was a secret compartment in the floor. It was definitely built in because this house is as good as new, even though we've lived in this house for twenty years. I lifted up the floor board and there was a duffle bag filled with money.

The last time I checked it wasn't this full. I took it out and I saw something else. A black journal, it was probably my mother's and... a gun. I never knew she had a gun. I ignored it and put the bag back.

I gripped onto a shelf and struggled getting up. I got out of the closet and began cleaning. Picking up used cigarette buts and empty beer bottles and throwing them in the black bin bag.

I spread her bed neatly not a crease in sight. I cleaned her very dirty bathroom and closet. Once I was done with her room, I got out and for me to start cleaning the upstairs bathroom, I had to pass by the staircase.

I had flashes again. This happened before we left the house. Before the accident. She had pushed me down the stairs.

"Get the fuck up" my mother said kicking me in my stomach. We were going out I don't know where but she said I had to come with her.

Even though I didn't know where we were going, I still stood up and I still followed her out the door and I still sat in that car with her. I was an obedient child.

I passed the stairs and into the upstairs bathroom and I had flashes again. Ones I didn't want to revisit. Ones that where at the back of my mind for a reason. My breaking point.

I was crying, weeping, sobbing. I had cut my wrist and felt nothing. What has happened to me? I cut my other wrist again and still felt nothing. I used to feel relief, relaxed and at peace, but it's gone now.

I slid down the sink blood slowly filling the bathroom, I had stopped crying and I just stared blankly at the once white tiled floor now turning red. The second time in my life I had truly given up.

What was the point anyway?

I clenched my eyes shut and shook my head getting rid of the memory, getting rid of the feeling of hopelessness that coursed through my body that day. I shoved it back into the corners of my mind and went back to cleaning.

I also opened the windows in here because it's as of everywhere in the house smells like weed and blood. I rushed through this one because being in here was worse than being in any room of the house.

I contemplated going to the guest room but decided against it. I struggled to going down the stairs, I almost fell twice. When I reached the bottom I was panting. I had to carry very heavy cleaning supplies with a broken ankle but I've had worse.

Having a broken ankle is horrible.

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Growing up, all I knew was pain. I guess I could blame my pain on the way that I act. Being hurt by everyone around me really took a toll on me. And I guess, I wanted everyone to feel the same way. I wanted to inflict pain the way it's inflicted on me. I know that's not a great way to deal with trauma but that's how I wanted it to be. I abused my only daughter, because I grew up abused. What was I supposed to do? I had no knowledge on how to take care of a child. I raised her the same way I was raised but I guess I took it out of hand. She was raped and I know from experience rape isn't something you can live with and I still let them rape her. Countless times even. I regret that, at first it was satisfying then it became unbearable. She stopped screaming at some point, she just took it and I knew she had given up just like I did. Eventually I told them to stop coming. I did what I wanted, I let her experience the life I went through. Then why did I feel so ashamed? This is what I wanted, right? I wanted her to feel pain like I did, be raped like I was and give up like I did.

Then why do I feel like I did something wrong?

I blankly stare at the book. She regrets it? She let me go through all that just for her to regret it?! I'm broken, literally and all she gets is the peace of dieing and leaving me in this shitty world?!

I was angry, I was shaking. 'Akari?' My actions abrupted. I look up from the book which I had in a tight grip. There she was, standing in front of me. I stumbled up, ready to hit her but my hand just went right through her. She wasn't here.

I'm hallucinating.