We Watched the City Burn

Chapter 21

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS RAPE THEMES AND VIOLENCE, READER DIRECTION IS ADVISED.

He threw me against the wall, as hard as he could, knocking the air from my lungs, making my eyes see red. I hardly had time to slump to the floor before he brought his shit-kicking boots screaming into my ribs. I heard a sick, stomach turning crunch when the steel toe hit my bones, white hot pain worse than anything I had ever felt spread all over my chest and came spilling out of my mouth in twisted, agonized wails.

Again and again he kicked me, blood, bitter and hot dripped my my mouth, spilling onto the floor that my Mother mopped daily to keep clean. It's going to stain. That's the only thing I can think about while he picks me up by my arm and drags me to his bedroom. I know what's coming, and there's nothing I can do to stop this... 

 He drags me into his room and throws me on the bed, and I can feel my cracked ribs, almost like they're ripping through every inch of me. I close my eyes, crashing in on myself, trying to cut off feeling over the rest of my body; if I feel what he does, there's no way I can erase it. Instead, I hide inside myself, go to the stars and wait it out. Ignore the pain, the tearing of forced entry. 

The feeling of my father's hands on places it should never be. His strangled, livid voice telling me not to make a sound as he hurts, hurts, hurts me. I don't open my eyes, I don't move, I lay there, lip while he moves my body to serve his twisted purpose.

I don't know how much time has passed when he lets me fall to the bed, the sheets are sticky with God only knows what. I can smell the rust, metallic scent of blood that I know to be mine. The other liquid is something I should never be near, considering it came from my father, and is now inside me.

I need to get out of here, I need to see a doctor, but I don't know if I can move. My stomach is twisting, threatening to heave at any moment, and parts of my body feel like they've been ripped beyond repair. If I go to a doctor, He would have to come with me, insurance and all that. He can lie with the best of them, but, for some reason I hate and don't get, I'm afraid of Him getting caught.

He's the only family I have left, and if He goes to prison, where will I end up? No one would be in my Mother's house, someone else would move in. Probably remodel it completely. They'd scrape the stars off my ceiling and paint my room. Covering the hand-painted stars that Mom and I spent months working with some horrible shade of eggplant.

I can't let that happen. But I can't stay here like this. I need medical attention.

I roll onto my back, biting back screams, tears streaking down my face. If Mom hadn't left things would have never been this bad. Granted he would have beat her instead of me, I would never have to live this way.

Why didn't she take me with her? Did I do something wrong? Was I a bad kid? Did she just not love me anymore? Even though I'm eighteen, a man by society's standards, I cry out for her in pathetic gasps.  Crying makes me hurt more, which makes me sob harder, this is a sick cycle that I'm stick in and I have no idea how to get out of it.

But if He hears me crying, He'll come back and beat silence into me, that I'm sure of. I need to clean myself up, check the damage, but how can I when just laying here is hurting me almost more than I can stand? I know I have at least one cracked rib, and my...other area needs to be checked for serious tearing. He went in dry for fucks sake.

The only way I'd get to the doctor is He took me. I don't see that happening, but I have to try. There's only one way to really get his attention: I have to speak.

Mustering up all the breath I have, I yell, as loud as I can, "IF YOU'RE GONNA FUCK ME UP, YOU MIGHT AS WELL TAKE ME TO ER."

He hated cussing, so this on top of my yelling is gonna send Him into overdrive. I lay there, my head swimming and start to see little black spots popping up on my vision. He better hurry his ass up, 'cause I'm going to pass out soon.

 I start to go under when I hear him thunder into the room, I'm looking at the world through a thick, black veil when I see His face pale in horror. Like someone else had done this to me. For a second, He almost looks human. Almost. He takes a few startled steps back, and runs from the room, only to return a minute later with a thick quilt. I don't have strength to cry out when he wraps me in it and lifts me in his arms.

Just as the world is about to be lost to me, I hear Him croak two words I never thought I'd hear him say: I'm sorry.