The Right Kind Of Wrong

Chapter 9

Flashback:

I was finally pulled from my amazing dream by the shouting and what sounded like large objects hitting the ground after trying to ignore it for the past seven minutes. My little hands came up to rub my eyes and I turned to look at the Hello Kitty clock beside my bed. It was three o'clock in the morning. I closed my tired eyes and willed the noises coming from downstairs to go away. My daddy had tucked me into bed at nine but my little brain was frantic with visions of my day tomorrow. My teacher was throwing a party for the class since we had all learned our vocabulary words and scored above a 90 on the spelling test. She was bringing cupcakes and pizza and soda and goody bags and we were going to watch a movie. I wanted to hurry and go to sleep so the night would pass quicker but the thought of those delicious cupcakes made my tummy grumble. I was hiding under my thick blankets so that I wouldn't jump from the bed and sneak downstairs for a midnight snack. The activities being preformed downstairs, however, made me forget my hunger and I was more curious as to what was going on.

I whined and sat up in bed, pouting as my long black hair, thrown into what used to be a neat ponytail, fell into my eyes; I rubbed it back out of my face. Throwing my Hello Kitty blankets off of me, exposing my matching pajamas, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I ran into every toy in my room as I made my way blindly to the door and pulled it open slowly and quietly. The bright light from the restroom across the hall assaulted my eyes and I squeezed them shut before stepping out. The sounds from downstairs became louder and I realized someone was screaming in Spanish and someone else was grunting in pain.

My throat became constricted and tears pooled in my eyes as my over active imagination took over. It created an image of a large burly man in tattered clothing, with wild curly hair hanging over his even crazier eyes, and razor sharp teeth. He was beating on another, smaller man, with a large sledgehammer. It probably wasn't the best idea to watch Thor before I went to bed.

Pulling my bottom lip into my mouth, I inched my way slowly to the top of the stairs and clutched the thick railing in my tiny hand. On down the hall, my parents bedroom door was opened a crack and the bed appeared to be empty. Mommy was away celebrating her parents anniversary. Daddy couldn't go because he had work.

Having snuck down to the kitchen plenty of times in the middle of the night to sneak some sweets into my room, I knew the right side of the stairs was the quietest. Inching down on that side, staying glued to the wall, I made it to the bottom and realized the noises were emanating from the living room. They were louder up close and I could now hear the man screaming in Spanish was saying bad words.

Very bad words.

My lower lip quivered and I gripped the railing tighter squeezing my eyes shut. Suddenly I wasn't so curious to see what was going on anymore. Tears sprang to my brown eyes and my body began to shake. Just as I was about to turn and head back up the stairs, a voice speaking in almost perfect English reached my ears and I instantly recognized it.

"Daddy?" I whispered quietly. All fear for myself aside, I took the last step off of the staircase and took small, slow steps to the living room. What greeted me was not something I would ever forget.

Standing in the middle of the room was a large man with long black hair stuck to his scalp and running down his back. He was dressed in jeans, a shiny leather jacket, and dirty browns boots. His face- one that was not very pretty with too small eyes and a too big nose- was twisted into an expression of anger but his eyes shined with satisfaction. His giant hands were doing two different things. One poised to punch high in the air behind him, coated in blood I'm sure wasn't his, and the other holding the shirt of a scared little man covered in blood. Sitting calmly in the lazy boy in front of the window was a bored looking man wearing a crisp white shirt, tight dark blue jeans, and brown Stacey Adams. His chestnut brown hair was in a short side part that sat high on his head with the help of gel and hair spray no doubt. A cigarette hung loosely from his fingers and at that moment he rose it leisurely to his lips and took a long drag. He spoke in a thick Spanish accent directing his words at the bruised and battered man.

The man holding my father tightened his grip and I realized then he was waiting for the order to hit him again.

My eyes finally took the time to examine my father. He was hanging rigidly from the big man's hand holding onto it so that he wouldn't let him go, though I'm sure that wouldn't have stopped him from doing so. His face was already swollen in various places and he was covered in so much blood I couldn't tell really where it was coming from. His right eye had already started to bruise and it was colored a nauseating yellow and purple. His lip was burst open but had already scabbed over. He ran his tongue over the wound before answering and the bleeding started again. His pajamas were painted with blood as well down to his bottoms. A few splashes had even managed to get on the carpet.

My mind was so occupied taking in the scene before me that it didn't register any of the words that were being said.

Whatever question the man had asked apparently had one right answer and my father didn't give it to him. Before I could finally blink, the man had punched my father hard in the face. I heard a sickening crack and a whimper left my lips giving away my presence.

Three pairs of eyes landed on me and chills ran through my body, freezing my blood cold. I bit my lip and trailed frightened eyes to the man in the chair whose presence spoke the loudest.

His bored expression was now colored with a shade of curiosity. And malice. Without breaking eye contact, he put his cigarette out on the end table next to him. The smell of burning wood momentarily filled the room as he rest his arms on the chair's.

"This is your daughter?" His English was accompanied by his heavy accent and made it slightly harder to understand him. Since Spanish was my first language, however I didn't realize I wasn't suppose to understand him.

My father turned his head sharply in my direction, all fear for himself now aimed at me. "Geneeva, sube las escaleras!"

The man in the chair smiled a smile full with anything but good promises. "No. Let the niñita stay. I'm sure she wants to see what an mierda no confiable her father is." His piercing eyes sought out my own and an involuntary shiver racked my body. "Come niñita. Sit on Uncle Muerte's lap."

Though I was plagued with fear and could hardly breathe straight because of it, and though the last thing I wanted to do was sit on a guys lap who had the gusto to call himself 'death', my little shaking legs carried me towards the man and I found myself sitting in his lap before the rational side of my brain could get in a word edge wise.

"Now," he spoke leaning forward and cradling my body in his lap in an almost fatherly way, "-this may look bad àngel, but I guarantee I do this with good reason." He turned a ferocious eye to my father who looked back at me with so much fear in his eyes I almost choked on it. "Your dear padre owes me a bit of money, he has for quite some time, but he seems to never have it."

My father began bumbling in rushed Spanish, speaking so fast I could hardly catch a word he was saying. "SILENCE!" The man roared and my father immediately shut his mouth. "You have had plenty of time and if it wasn't for the pequeña flor en mi regazo, serías otra mancha en la alfombra. Consider yourself a lucky man."

I wasn't exactly sure what the man had meant when he had made his threat but I knew it wasn't anything good. Suddenly I was sitting alone in the chair and the brown haired man was walking out of the house. With one final hard blow to my father's face that sent him crumpling to the ground, the large man soon followed his boss, slamming the door in his wake.