We Watched the City Burn

Chapter 7

White hot pain. Fire spreads across my face. I tumble back against the wall, keeping my head down. Do not look at him. Looking makes him angrier. Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. He's had plenty to drink, is breathing lava and yells. The walls shake and the flowers on the dinning room table tremble. Ferdinand is in panic mode. I've turned to stone, waiting for him to come at me again. I hear nothing, see nothing. My eyes are clamped shut. A hand wraps around my throat, choking off my air supply, lifting my off my toes, he slamslamslams me agaisnt the wall so hard the pictures fall off the walls. 

My head is going to crack open. I'm going to lose all of my secrets. I'll never get away. I claw at his hand with my long, hard nails, I feel the blood I draw bubble up and spill over. His hand disappears, and I fall right on my ass. Not a second goes by before I'm on my feet and tearing down the hall to the front door. I can't stay home when he's this angry. Can't. He'd beat me to a pulp, then come and violate me until the sun comes up. I won't let that happen. I can't. I can't just sit and play dead while does...things to me. Not anymore. 

I run and run until I trip, roll to the ground, scrapping my knees and hands on the cement. I see the blood on my hands, dripping down my legs. My throat is burning, my head pounding. Every inch of my hurts. I'm so tired I can't see straight. I curl up, my knees to my chin and just sit there, under the street lights. I don't feel the temperature of the wind as it licks at me, playing with my hair. 

I've never run from him before. Never left his house that way. Without his permission, I never do anything without his say so. Fear drips over my bones and into my stomach, making me retch onto the grass. Tears run down my face, warm, how I hate them. I hate feeling anything. I hate how what he does still gets to me this way. 

I can remember when he was tender, when he loved me. When he would lift me on his shoulders, spin my round and round until I screamed. How he would chase the monsters from my bed and dreams. He is now the monster that comes to my bed, night after night. He is my father, yet he poisons me, kills me slowly with his own hands. But, he must still love me. 

You don't beat someone the way he beats me, you don't hate someone the way he hates me, if you didn't love them at some point. Hate and love require passion, he still holds passion toward me. But it is black, bad and evil. Twisted passion with teeth and angry hands. Hands that control his own, a tongue that controls his. That is not my father. This man, sunken eyes, whiskey breath, that man is someone I do not know. He stole my father's skin. 

My father left when my mother did. I was left in the remains, the empty house, all by myself. They left me here. She left me here. 

A cricket jumps near my foot, watches me, chirping a song, a sweet song. He tries to comfort me. Nature is good that way, creatures trying to put each other back together, trying to make the other strong again. 

 I lay out my hand for Mr. Cicket, inviting him to jump right on. Ferdinand smiles warmly at our kind, musical friend. Ferdinand doesn't often meet any new friends, he blows excited bubbles and flips to impress the cricket. 

Cautious, careful, Mr. Cricket hops into my palm, resumes his tune, watching me all the while. I sit on the sidewalk, the wind blowing and Ferdinand dances up and down my arm - he has two left fins, he really does. Eventually, Mr. Cricket hops away, and I stand, beginging my slow walk home. 

For the first time in a long time, I am not afraid.