Don't Judge Me (Being Edited)

11_ Perspective

I was troubled. The remainder of that week I thought of nothing but the unsaid words. I don’t know why I did. Or maybe I do. Maybe that was the problem.

After the second night of kissing and no words I decided that I couldn’t stay at Callum’s. Plus the making out was suddenly making me feel very guilty, especially since I was spending more time with Luke.

So I stayed at my house. I stayed at my house and I forced myself to comb through things. Besides I had to see my parents. I hadn't seen them in a while. I was also feeling guilty because of that.

It was Friday night and I was sitting in the front room of my house with my chin pressing into my hands and my legs crossed, on the floor. This picture of boredom was not forced; in fact it was so real that I wondered if I stayed like that long enough would my head actually melt into my palms.

I shook my head at that thought. It was stupid; but stupid enough to get me out of my funk.

I stood up, stretching my limbs and yawning.

Doors slamming, shouts, screams, yelling: the music of the night screeched in my ear.

My dad came hurtling down the stairs, his eyes glazed and angry. He looked at me and all his anger fell away. “Annie, my darling I didn’t know you were here.” He stumbled over to me and hugged me. His arms were thick and tight, they clung to me. It was like being trapped in poison ivy.

“Hi, daddy.”

He grinned and held onto my arms to look at me, “You get more beautiful every day, you know.”

I smiled at him. My dad was the only person who’d ever called me beautiful.

“To what do we owe the honour of you visiting our humble abode tonight?” my mother asked. She tripped on the stairs and swore but started laughing afterwards. She had a bottle of alcohol in her hand; I was surprised it didn’t drop when she did. But mum had always been good at holding her liquor.

My dad rolled his eyes, “Will you stop being such a fucking embarrassment?”

My mum hiccupped then started laughing again, “Am I embarrassing you now? In front of that little bitch? She’s not fit to be a daughter, just spends her time at that bastard’s house with his fucking stuck up family.” I flinched when she spoke about Callum.

“And you’re not fit to be a mother. No wonder she doesn’t want to stay here. Look at the state of you.”

She glared at him; though it didn’t look right. Her left eye was swollen shut so she looked like she was straining to see something. “And whose fault is that?”

My father growled. He must have forgotten that he was holding me as his hands clamped to my arms, squeezing them within an inch of their life. I cried out in pain.

Dad looked over at me, his eyes still filled with rage for a moment before the settled down into a softer nicer brown. “Oh, Annie, I'm so sorry.” He looked sorry but he didn’t let go. His death-grip went down to a choke-hold.

He turned back to my mother. “You, you made me do that.”

“Yeah and I made you fuck up your job, and your life and mine and I made you fuck me and have that thing.” She said pointing at me.

Dad clutched me to him, as though that would protect me from what mum was saying. I didn’t need protecting though, I was used to it.

“Antonia is the only good thing about your life. Without her you're better off dead.”

“I am dead!” she screamed, the words seemed to echo through the room. It was the first piece of quiet I’d heard all night, it was horrifying. Mum took a long deep swing of her beer then threw the empty bottle to floor and glared at my father, “And it’s all your fault!”

Mum then turned on her heel and went for the front door. Dad tossed me to the side and grabbed her by the back of her head. He really didn’t like people leaving him.

He brought her face to his and clamped his hand over her mouth. His voice was so dark and hollow that I thought my dad had been replaced with some kind of monster. I had to correct myself, my dad was a monster. “You think I’ve ruined your life? You think what you have here is ruined because I tell you now you ugly bitch I can make your life a whole lot worse. I can make you wish you were never born. I can make you wake up in the middle of the night calling for you mummy. I can make you regret every hand you’ve ever put on that little girl. You hear me?”

My mum whimpered. I watched as teardrops swam down her cheek and the curve of her chin. They wet my dad’s hand but he didn’t care. Tears had no effect on my father.

Dad shook her, she wasn’t answering fast enough. My mum realised this and nodded vigorously. It pained her to do so. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was in psychical pain or mental pain, I guess it was both.

Dad released her and she flopped to the floor. Her body twisted at the last moment and landed on her back. She bit into her lip and I wondered if anything was broken.

Dad didn’t look back at her, he didn’t even look at me, just walked into the kitchen, slammed the door and went (I presume) to find something to drink.

I tried to move but found my ankle was telling me to stop moving. I frowned at my left leg. It was just a sprain, it was an inconvenience. Instead of making a big deal out of it I just slid over my mother.

She was breathing heavily. Her face was wet, with tears- no blood. I smiled, so she wasn’t too hurt. “Mum?” I said softly. She was better at times like that. I don’t know if it humbled her or something, she just wasn’t as loud and hateful.

She looked up at me, her face was flat and monotone as it always was after dad was done with her. I will admit she was right, she was dead. She reached up and touched my hair, “Why do you ever come back here?”

I guess I was meant to say something like ‘because I love you’ or ‘I don’t want to leave you alone’ but I told her the truth, I said, “I don’t know.”

She nodded and smiled sadly at me, “Go to sleep you little bitch.” And despite the words they were said in the sweetest way my mother had ever spoken to me.

I held myself together and didn’t let myself cry. I smiled back at her.

The hand in my hair went to my cheek. Her hand cupped it, “You won’t let him hurt you like he hurt me. You’re stronger than me.”

My brow furrowed at this. I was normally on the ball with these things but this felt weird like she meant more than what she was saying.

So I left her there. I had to anyway. Dad would eventually come out of the kitchen and he would be angry. Mum always got in more trouble around me.

I walked up the stairs and went to my bedroom. I shut the door and sat on my bed. I sat until the sun rose and birds began singing outside. I sat and thought about my parents.

I didn’t think about boys and guilt and other shit like that. I was glad, in a small way; I didn’t want to be one of those girls who worried about dances and what they were going to wear. I was someone who worried about their father hurting their mum. I worried about someone at school noticing I had bruises on my back. I worried about serious things.

My parents really put things into perspective.