CHRIST: FINDING THE LIGHT

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

I was still wearing my hospital gown, but it didn't seem to matter as Dad grabbed me by my arm and dragged me into the manor. A few workers glanced our way, some even going the extra mile and looking intrigued but none dared to interfere. I caught a glimpse of Ryan pruning a hedge, and he shot me a sympathetic glance before he went back to work. At least he hadn't been fired.

Dad tossed me into my room like I weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He rolled up his sleeves, and glared at me menacingly as he cracked his hairy knuckles.

"After all I've done for you, you ungrateful little wench," he growled. "You have the audacity to throw it back into my face by running away? Do you know how awkward it was for me to explain to police officers that you had gotten up and disappeared? How embarrassing it was to ask for help to look for you?"

He slapped me, hard, and I reeled from the impact. When he moved away, there was a red mark on my cheek, which stung. I didn't dare to meet his eyes, knowing that if I did, my punishment would be worse. I had long since given up on asking for mercy; my father had none to give.

"Dad, I'm sorry," I said, my voice breaking. I tried to be strong, but I was tired. Tired of abuse, tired of pain. Tired of life.

"You think that sorry is going to change my mind?" he asked, as if my question stunned him. I didn't answer. Dad punched me and my head snapped back, as the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I spat out a glob of bloody saliva.

"When I ask a question, I expect an answer. Is that clear?" he hissed.

I nodded. My ankle was throbbing, and my arm felt like it had been yanked clean out of its socket. Not to mention the red mark on my cheek which was going to leave a nasty bruise.

"Where were you planning to go?" he asked.

"Huh?" Had I been in my right mind, I would never have answered in that manner. In as much as my father was a brute and a bully, he had raised me to be a lady-or rather, my stepmother had. He hated casual slang, and above all, he hated the word, 'huh.'

But I was tired, injured and terrified out of my wits of what he would do, so what came out of my mouth was the product of an extremely frazzled brain.

Dad narrowed his eyes, and pinched his thin lips. "What was that?"

He sounded as if he couldn't believe that I was the one who had said that. Me, shy little Ashley. Ashley, who rarely ever spoke out.

"Noth-" I never got to finish my statement, as punch after blow after kick rained down on me. I curled myself up into a small ball, trying to protect myself from his attacks. I had learned that the first places to guard were my stomach and my face. The fetal posture I had adopted helped with that.

My sense of time was distorted as my own father beat me to a pulp on my bedroom floor. I was helpless and hopeless, waiting for the sweet relief of unconsciousness to take the pain away. It never came. Dad stood up, stretching his bloody fists out and looking at me as if I was scum of the Earth, and not his daughter, the child he had raised.

"I hope you've learnt your lesson. Next time I won't be so lenient." With this warning, he swept out of the room, leaving misery and heartache in his wake. And finally, when he left, on that cold, hard floor, unconsciousness came in the form of a dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, the sun shone into my room, promising a better day. I squinted, trying to make out the time from the digital clock that hung on my wall. 9:02AM, it read. I stood and promptly collapsed onto the floor. My entire body hurt, and it felt as if I was just one gigantic living bruise.