Okay, in this chapter we will meet Ally's dad and just a quick warning, he isn't pleasant but please read on and hopefully enjoy! Comment and vote if you like, it means a lot! :)
When I finally made it back to the house I could only imagine how bad I looked. The air had gotten cold when I left which made my eyes water and sting as I ran, my nose was as cold as the ice that I had been skating on and my hair was probably all tussled in the wind. My dad hated that I dip dyed it so that I had a mixture of blue and dark purple at the tips of my hair so he was going to hate it even more that I was about to enter the house with it looking like a tumbleweed. I was just hoping that he wasn’t home.
I approached the house that was meant to be my home with weak knees, please don’t let him be in there, I begged silently. When I had slowly made my way up the top of the porch steps the house seemed scarier than usual. I don’t even know why I call it a house; it’s more like a prison.
I gently grabbed the door handle and twisted it. It opened which meant he was home and I was going to have to face the beast.
When the closed the door softly behind me my heart was hammering so hard against my rib cage that I thought it was going to get out and run away. Running away was exactly what I wanted to do. I padded along the passage silently, prey, waiting for the predator to come out and get it before it can escape.
Most of the lights were off and I couldn’t hear anybody upstairs so I made my way to the kitchen, where the beast lay in wait.
“Allison, you’re late, I was beginning to get worried,” he said falsely, his eyes were like slits, glaring at me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, he made a sudden movement to get up when I stiffened and stood at straight. “I’m sorry; I didn't mean to worry you. Would you like a cup of tea?” I replied automatically, a robot, controlled.
“That would be lovely darling,” he answered in his fake drawl. I made my way slowly and cautiously to the sink behind him, he didn't turn to face me as he knew I wasn’t a threat. He stayed sat at the dining table.
“So, where were you?” he demanded quietly, just loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to be threatening. It made my spin quiver every time. Every bone in my body went cold and my blood seemed to be pumping at twice the speed and strength it should be.
“I was working,” I answered in a vulnerable tone whilst putting the kettle on. My words seemed to be caught in my throat, scared to get out in the open with him; they knew what he was capable of and wanted to stay in the safeness of my mouth.
“Hmm,” was the only answer that I received. I cleaned out a cup and the tap seemed to fill the room with noise as well as the cup with water. The silence was deafening until he started to tap his fingers impatiently on the table.
“Here you go,” I put the finished coffee in front of him, I’d done it just as he liked it and I pulled my hands away quickly so he didn't see them shaking.
“I’m having some friends over tomorrow night. I don’t want to see you in the house,” he said firmly, still not looking at me, I was glad he didn't.
“But where will I stay for the night?” I asked after a moments pause and then he turned to face me. His arms tense and his eyes angry.
“I don’t know do I? Sort it out for yourself! Do I have to do everything around here Allison? You’re seventeen now you little brat! I shouldn’t have to go around finding you a place to stay,” he exploded and stood up, towering over me and I took a step back, only to feel the fridge, cold through my cardigan.
“I’m sorry; I’ll stay at a friend’s,” I replied, my voice was shaky but he didn't stop, he came towards me with his hands clenchedinto tight fists. He leant down and put his face in line with mine, the tobacco and coffee were twined with his breath.
“Why don’t you just go out and find a nice bloke to stay with, you’ll give him what he wants with no problem, then you’ll have a place to stay,” I flinched as if he’d hit me, his words were like bullets, the verbal abuse surrounding and suffocating me.
He put his hand out and grabbed my shoulder, shoving me forward into the table. I didn't cry, moan or wince. I took the abuse and clenched my eyes shut, trying not to feel the pain or look at the man that was making me small and pathetic. My dad, supposedly my protector.
“Get upstairs; I can’t stand the sight of you,” he grabbed my upper arm on my bandage and steered me towards the stairs, his grip burned on my arm as I fell on the bottom step. He grunted as I scrambled to my feet and tried to climb the stairs. “Stupid girl,” he muttered before turning on his heels and returning to his lair in the kitchen.
I practically sprinted into my bedroom and shut the door. I sat on the floor and curled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. I could hear something breaking downstairs, a thumping and loud bang. At least it was the table this time rather than my face.
My room was more like a cell than my hiding place. The walls were white and the floor was a light brown, my furniture was all white wood as well. I used to love it up here, my mum used to tell me it was perfect for her little angel, but now it just felt like a padded cell. It was almost as if I was crazy, something was most definitely wrong with me, why else would my dad hit me?
I didn't cry, nor did I sob. I just got up, walked to my bed and got out my first aid kit. I changed the bandage on my wrist, trying not to look at the red handprint that was seared onto my skin. I also replaced the one on my upper arm and treated the carpet burn with savlon. I was so used to this now it was like a daily schedule.
I sighed, feeling the warmth of my breath on my lips before going to the mirror and checking for any marks on my face. There wasn’t any but I could still see the fear in my eyes and the look of betrayal.
I clenched my eyes shut and tried to think back to when we used to be happy, a family and I wasn’t covered in bruises and scars.
My mum died when I was 10, she was beautiful with big blue eyes and platinum blonde hair. She was only twenty two when she had me but my dad told her to keep the baby and they could handle it. Which they did. My dad worked in real estate and my mum settled down with dress making for the local seamstress. When I came along we moved down the country to get away from my grandparents and their constant fussing, we’d lived in this house since. My dad still blamed me for what happened to my mum; he wouldn’t let me forget any of the details, all of them scarred into my mind where they would never leave me.
For a while I actually believed that her death was my fault, it wasn’t until I got older that I realised it had nothing to do with me, it was just very bad luck. I went home and told my dad that day, one of the biggest mistakes ever. He went ballistic and attacked me with the pole that we used to push the coal around on the fire. It was still hot and burnt my upper arm, leaving me with a hideous mark.
I sighed before retreating to my bed. I got out my sketch pad and continued to draw my figure skater to add to my mum’s drawing, only I was drawing her when she was my age. I’d gone through all the boxes in my attic when my dad went on one of his all drink weekends and found a load of pictures from when they were younger and when she’d first started to skate.
I sat and sketched, the only sounds were the soft glide of the pencil and my heavy breathing which still hadn’t quite recovered after that run in with my dad.
I sat forward on my bed after drawing the smooth lines of her leg, graceful in its spiral position. I glanced over at the brochure that was hanging out of the bottom of my mattress, child line. I’d wanted to call them long ago when he first started to hit me, but I was always too scared. Too scared that he’d find out and kill me before they got to me. Scared they’d arrest him and he’d never forgive me. But mostly scared of loosing the only family member I had left, even if he did abuse me.
I ran my hands over my face and snuck out to the bathroom to wash up and pack for tomorrow night. I didn't know where I would go yet, either at work, my friends or just stay overnight at the ice rink.
YOU ARE READING
Beating YouTeen Fiction
If you mentioned Ally Scythe to someone, they'd say one of three things. 1) That girl can skate. 2) Doesn't she work at the bookshop? or 3) Poor thing, her mother's death was a tragedy. Nobody would even consider the fact that she is battling somet...