Shattered Pieces

Punching Bag

Tw child abuse

The next morning as soon as I woke up, I knew that I needed to tell Dad and Emerson everything. 

"Hey dad, Em? Can we talk?" I asked them. They followed me into the living room. As I walked over and sat on the couch I suddenly thought If these walls could talk. How many stories would they tell? And it was true, so many family moments were in the living room. From me and Dad wrestling each other for fun (and also sometimes for the remote.), Sebastain teaching me guitar, Emerson and I drawing together, all of us eating together while watching a movie because we couldn't be bothered to sit in the dining room, me reading one of my many books aloud to them as Emerson drew and Sebastain gently stummed his guitar and dad sitting next to me with his head over my shoulder reading silently along with me. 

And then there are these moments. Less happier ones, moments of hard conversations, moments of sadness and tears.

"What is it, Kar?" "I want you guys to know everything, everything, everything." Emerson gave me a supportive smile and dad gestured for me to continue talking. "I guess I'll just start at the beginning then. Growing up before the orphanage wasn't good. At all. My father died when I was three and until I was seven and placed into the orphanage my mother hated me. And it wasn't just a feeling of she hated me, she continuously showed me. Verbally and physically. When I was four that was when she really started getting bad. Every time I saw her, another bruise would be added to the growing collection all over my body." 

Flashback 4 1/2 years old

 I crept cautiously into the kitchen making sure to stay hidden in the shadows. I only wanted a glass of water. My stomach grumbled as I hide around the corner. I haven't eating in almost a week. "What are you doing brat!?" My mother screeched at me as I walked out around into the kitchen and away from the safety of the shadows.   

My eyes went wide, and I backed up slowly hoping to be back in the safety of the dark where I could hide away from her easily. But instead of going back into the hall I backed into the wall. "Well! ANSWER ME!!" She screamed and struck me across the face. 

Even though she yelled at me to answer her I wasn't able to say a word before another blow hit me. 

And they kept raining down again and again as I fell to the floor and curled into a ball to try to protect myself from the punches and the sharp kicks from her bright red pointed stilettos. As they kept coming and wouldn't stop my mother kicked me in the head. I reached up and felt a warm, sticky substance covering my small palm. 

"I hope you die." My mother spat out like venom as she finally relented and left me alone, curled up on the floor as many more bruises formed and the throbbing in my head took over and the world went dark. I only wanted some water.

Flashback over

As I finished my story, we all had tears in our eyes and my breath was shaky. "There wasn't really a break from that every day I had new cuts, bruises, and wounds would be inflicted on me when I didn't do anything. I always wondered what I did wrong, and I always obeyed every single thing she ever told me to do to the letter hoping that maybe just once I would have done it good enough, that for once in my life I would be good enough. But it never happened, and I never was." 

Flashback 5 years old 

I had finished cleaning the floor of the bathroom, with a mop that was twice the size of me. It looked perfect. I could literally see it sparkle. I thought that it was done, and good enough, so I went and told my mother that I had finished cleaning. 

"What is this!" My mother yelled at me. "It is absolutely disgusting! I told you to clean this floor until it shown!" She screamed at me and grabbed my hair, and I could feel her pulling it out from the roots. I knew by now that the less noise I made the less pain I had to endure.