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You never know the true feeling of loneliness until you become a stranger in your own home. When you no longer recognize the people who you once called your family. When it gets to the point that you would rather die then go back to your godforsaken house. I'd never understood the true meaning of abandonment until now.
Some days, I'd rather stay at school, which is hard enough to believe. I'd rather sit in that hell hole with the people who make my life more miserable than it already is, than go home and face my shithole of a stepfather. Between the weekly poker games in our garage, or the nightly, alcohol induced fits that usually send me out the back door, you could say school was my escape. At least when I'm at school, I can escape to the bathrooms without being followed.
This never would have happened if my dad hadn't dipped out of my life. He decided that big fake tits and a beach house were more important than his wife or daughter. Now he and his twenty-something's girlfriend are living it out in Bora Bora, and I'm stuck with shit-face Jack and my poor mom, who is too loyal to see what he's doing to me.
You see it all over the television nowadays, mostly on crime shows. The devoted, doting wife turns a blind eye as her new husband abuses her and her children. She assumes that he had a bad day at work, and brushes away the cries of help coming from her living-room. In all honesty, I'd rather be with my dad, even if his gold digger girlfriend was nearly my age.
I guess you could say I've got it pretty fuckin' bad.
My names Evangeline Maria Demonte, and I hate my life.
"Eva! Laundry please!" I heard my mom's singsong voice carry up to my third floor bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the crippled hamper than sat in the corner of my messy room. The handles were broken, and it had a large hold in the side, thanks to one of Jack's drunken fits. He'd thrown his bottle through it, and then blamed it on me, which is why he refuses to buy me a new one. He said it was my fault. It's always my fault.
Begrudgingly, I heaved myself up from my bed, ignoring the creaks and groans it gave out. I needed a new bed too, but I doubted I'd be getting that anytime soon. All of out money that isn't spent on bills goes to his alcohol addiction. Every few days he'd buy a new bottle of whiskey; not the small ones either, the huge, sixty dollar bottles that are wider around than my thigh. He'd finish that off in about 4 days tops, and immediately head to the store for a new one. It was a routine I'd gotten used to long ago.
"Eva!" I head my mom call, louder this time, with a growing frustration in her tone. I picked up the pace a bit, and carefully lifted my broken hamper into my arms. With a little stumbling, and a few dropped socks here and there, I successfully made it down the two flights of stairs to the laundry room, where I discarded the hamper. My mom t'sked at me, and placed her hands on her bony hips.
"You always wait too long to do laundry, and I have to do multiple loads!" She shook her head.
"You're almost eighteen years old Evangeline I can't do your laundry forever." She seemed to turn her nose up at me at the end of her phrase, as if I was somehow below her because I didn't do my own laundry. As if that was the worst thing that happened in this house.
"Well, Yvonne, maybe if you'd take time out of your day to teach me, I could." I hissed, putting emphasis on her name. She hated when I called her that. Before she could muster up one of her pathetic, sarcastic responses, I turned on my heel and practically ran from the room. I didn't need another lecture about how much she and Jack did for me, how I had such an easy life, and I wouldn't get yelled at so much if I just did what I was told.
I ascended the long, mahogany staircases that led to the third floor, and locked my bedroom door behind me. I'm sure that when Jack gets home, my mom will fabricate a story about how I insulted her, and Jack would come up to punish me. The thought sent a chill down my spine, and caused me to subconsciously rub the barely-there bruises on my torso. It had been a little over a week since my last punishment, so the bruises were nearly gone. For once I looked like a normal human being. Almost.
I looked myself up and down in the tall mirror that sat beside my bed. If I had a little bit more meat on my thin frame, I could actually pass for pretty. The long, almost black waves that tapered into curls that lined my face gave me a mysterious look. I needed a haircut, I noticed; it almost reached my bellybutton by now. I looked over my freckled skin, admiring every little dot. They were more noticeable across my nose and cheeks, but only in the summer when I spent too much time in the sun. Finally, my eyes rested upon their own reflection. What once were stunning, ocean blue orbs were now a dull, emotionless gray. I held myself in what was almost a trance for what felt like hours, before my silent bliss was torn away my sharp pounds on my bedroom door. He was going to break it down one of these days. Again.
"Evangeline Maria open this fucking door!" I heard my step-dick roar, not surprisingly, I could hear the slur in his words. He'd already been drinking and he just got home from his work. What shock. It wouldn't surprise me if we get a call one of these days that he was fired for drinking on the job - or maybe that he wrecked his car while driving under the influence. One could only dream.
"How about you take that door and shove it!" What I thought was being said in my head, was actually tumbling from my lips. I clamped a hand over my mouth, as a roll of fear shook my entire frame. All five foot three of me. Thud. Thud. BANG. BANG. I could picture the scene perfectly; Jack, throwing himself against my door while the wood creaks and whines against the hinges. My mother, rooted to the ground at the end of the hall, peeking around the corner. Before too long, my poor wooden door gave out. The wood splintered and the hinges gave way. The door swung backwards with such force that, when it hit the wall, the doorknob made a hole in the drywall. Just another thing that would end up being my fault.
"What the fuck did you just say to me, whore?" Jack's words were eerily calm. It was like that once simple sentence made him completely sober. I had no words. No snarky comment. A tiny whimper was uttered past my lips, before a hard slap echoed around my bedroom. My head was whipped to the side so quickly, I felt my neck crack. Fire erupted over my cheek, and up into my eyes. Strange how one good slap could make your eyes feel like they were going to explode.
"Don't you EVER speak to me like that again. Do you understand me? Or do I need to teach your little slut ass another lesson." I froze at his words, venom dripping from his tone. He hadn't done that for almost 4 months. I thought it was over.
"I-I wont!" I finally cried out, while covering my face; I expected another blow. He seemed satisfied with himself, for now. I knew he'd return later that night for a second round. Of what, I wasn't sure. It could be anything at this point. He could use me as a punching bag, or for his pleasure. At this point, I didn't care.
Slowly, with wobbly legs, I collapsed onto my bed, alone once more. My cheek still stung from the impact of his slap, but I've had worse. I've done worse. I will.. Do worse. One little slap didn't matter anymore. It didn't compare to what was coming.
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Hello my lovelies.
I'm revamping this story -- having started it wayyyy back in 2018, I think my writing has improved quite a bit!
Enjoy! Or don't. I don't mind.
All of my love,
E
YOU ARE READING
Below the Surface
Werewolf"Stay away from me!" A shrill cry tore from my throat. I had nowhere else to go. My back was pressed against the cold, pale walls of the school hallway. We were dreadfully, horrifyingly alone. "C'mon princess, don't act like that." His voice was lik...
