My eyes dart with anticipation towards the old fashioned clock positioned at the hallway arch indicating it was time for first period.
For obvious reasons I hated loitering around in the hallway or courtyard not being able to talk to anyone.
I mostly keep to myself to avoid anyone unintentionally finding out about my living situation. The less involved the better right?
Too many questions. Too many answers. Not enough acting skills.
It's just an easier lifestyle.
I could go to the police. Telling the whole world about my parents and torment was a possibility. It's not like I couldn't construct a plan to get to the police station before they noticed. I could even use my sister's phone claiming I wanted to call a friend and actually call the cops or child services instead.
Everyone thinks that static abused kids are idiots. People assume we don't know that there are various viable options. That we don't notice all the adults around with the ability to help or that we aren't aware of the available technology that can be borrowed and used as an escape. They think we're just plain stupid. We're not.
I'm not saying there's a club specifically for genius neglected kids, we don't exactly meet up every week for a seminar, but I know how they think. It's how I think.
There's multiple factors and reasons that go into an abused kid keeping his or her mouth shut.
Mine just happens to be this beloved sister I never shut up or stop thinking about, I was sticking it out for her. I don't want us to end up in foster care, a lot of things can happen once we're in the system. One major thing and source of anxiety is that we can be separated, and I don't want that kind of life for her.
Granted, it would be ten times better than the life I currently have, but I can't only think of myself.
With some struggle, I begin walking to class with my head down. My hollowed face held a fresh cut on my jawline and I didn't want anyone to catch wind of it. There wasn't much time to cover it up while getting ready because of how freaking sore I was.
This morning I could hardly make it to the bathroom to relieve myself. I practically crawled and limped around my room for the entirety of my morning routine. After a beating you don't really feel it, it's essentially a radiating numbness, all you can do is hope and pray that the next day you don't feel it either.
I always do.
You would think that after all these years my body would suck it up and acclimate. But you never really do, there's always that lingering sting or pinch. Always that reminder that you're living in an eternal hell.
My parents aren't mental. They don't hurt me because they're crazy and their psyche is all messed up. They hurt me because they want to, because I deserve it. They find it funny. They're doing it to exact revenge— or at least that's why my mother is.
After a few shaky steps I glance down and spot my shoelace has untied. The mere thought of bending down makes my blood run cold with nerves.
You got this Jessie. Fight the power. You're a strong independent woman.
I guess part of me should be happy I even got shoes this school year.
Part of their pleasure came from depriving me, making me feel like less of a human.
No cell phone, no new clothes, no new shoes, no new school supplies, sometimes I don't even get to eat or consciously shower.
It was effective, I felt like an animal most days.
Some nights when I lie in my freezing room, I dream that there's a warm feast laid out in front of me. It not only warms my skin, but it fills my dangerously empty stomach.
Dreams are not reality though.
I attempt carefully bending down and immediately topple over due to the sudden wave of dizziness. Thankfully, the hallway was nearly empty so not many teens witnessed my embarrassing failure.
I pitifully wondered how it would feel to be allowed to make friends, to have acquaintances, to be able to actually talk and do something other than feel sorry for myself.
What was shopping like? Or parties? How does it feel to just sit and breathe for a minute without being in fight or flight?
It was probably a bizarre sensation.
I shift onto my knee painfully and tie my shoe, then use all my power, plus the rusting lockers nearby, to stand up despite the spinning room.
Quickly in attempt to blend in and remain invisible while also avoiding being late, I start speed walking to my homeroom class.
It was more of a speed limp.
Though I'm forced into an abrupt halt as I spot my unavoidable nightmare approaching. It was almost like starring in a horror movie.
The mobile nightmare had a black cloud surrounding it, carrying a devious devilish grin. One of the figments wore Prada heels and a Michael Kors purse, it killed all living things with each proceeding step. As they approached dauntingly, the room grew smaller and darker.
Previously unnoticeable bugs on the ceiling begin raining down. The paint starts peeling with a putrid smell burning my nostrils. The few remaining students in the hall suddenly drop, rocking in distress. Everything around us was dying because of their evil luminosity. You could hear tornadoes swarming, hurricanes forming, tsunamis lapping, and earthquakes thundering.
Conservatively, the wicked devils held a small, frail, innocent flower with a ray of sunshine on it. It was beautiful. Slowly blossoming and becoming a new. It was inconspicuously fighting to stay alive, fighting to stay innocent, fighting to stay pure and safe.
My head fell crooked as I stared at the poetically breathtaking sight.
I knew that soon even the small ray of sunshine upon the flower wouldn't save it from the sinister force.
Blinking concisely, I snap back into reality and see it was just my god-awful parents holding my little sister's hand and closing in on me.
Nothing was dying.
Except for me on the inside.
No one and nothing was dropping.
Except for my self esteem
There was no flower. No dark cloud. No demise.
Not yet.
The evil monsters approached with a steady pace and sickly sweet smiles on their faces. I attempted to surreptitiously hide under the hood of my sweater.
However, I swiftly realized with irritation that they witnessed me leave the house. They knew how I looked and how I was dressed today. There was no point in hiding.
Furthermore, they bought me the damn outfit even if it wasn't for the right reasons. To their dismay, I had finally outgrown Kaylee's size and coinciding hand-me-downs so there was no other option.
It was a peculiar situation since it's usually the younger siblings getting the hand-me-downs, but due to being basically bone and skin, it wasn't hard fitting my younger sister's size.
I don't think one truly understands humiliation till they're forced to be in high school still wearing glitter and sparkles from a children's clothing store.
Upon registering the stark reality of my present situation I decide to awkwardly freeze in my current place and wait for them to do their worst.
Though I usually hid my feelings expertly, the loathing I constantly felt was sporadically hard to contain. I hate it. I hate these circumstances with every particle in my body. I hate the act. I despised the fact that they could make people think we were an actual, real, and normal family.
It was hard helplessly watching a neighbor come around asking why there was so much aggressive noise and yelling, because I knew I couldn't divulge, I just had to listen to my mother conjure up reassurances ranging from, "The girls are just playing loudly, I apologize..." to, "I'm sorry, one of the girls fell and you know how dramatic they are at this age." Or something along those lines.
The only time I ever heard them apologize was when they were lying.
It was especially hard to endure their deceptions when the police were called, usually because of the blood around our trashcans or the unusual weapons brought into our house, but they always smoothed the situation over with simple minded excuses related to puberty or odd kinks.
Everyone is quick to believe them because who would dare admit to something so personal and embarrassing? And who wants to get into a conversation about such things with a stranger?
Hate is a strong word, and I've always been taught to say that I don't hate anything I just strongly dislike people's actions or certain situations, but that's not the case, that's manipulative bullshit. We're human beings, we're allowed to hate, we're allowed to feel indignant especially in the face of injustice. It's normal, but my family isn't.
Normal parents don't torture their child because they're convinced they are the cause of everything going wrong in the lives. Normal parents don't expect their child to be a picture-perfect robot. And normal parents don't make it so blatantly obvious that they favor one of their kids over the other.
My parents do whatever they damn well please and I don't utter a syllable in disagreement.
I could, but fear constantly eats at me. Fear that it's the wrong choice, scared that it makes me weak.
And the real torment is wondering if it'll ever end, or if it'll end happily.
As they get closer, I start to shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. Deciding to ignore them and prioritize class would undoubtedly result in horrific punishment and even if I wasn't scared of the punishment I was still terrified of defiance in general.
I live my life in dismay.
My only resolve is to lie and fake my way out of here. I could act but it wasn't Grammy worthy.
Lying to my parents has become a daily habit, it really wasn't even lying anymore it was simply surviving. My brain had to grow sharp. It was quick to come up with realistic tales and excuses. I guess I was more like them than I would care to admit.
Sucking in a deep breath, I get out my polite voice from my little purse of untruthfulness and start to force it out as best as I could through gritted teeth.
"What are you doing here mom? ..Dad?"
Another thing I hated— calling them "Mom" and "Dad."
This violently heartless man isn't my dad. He's actually my stepdad. I don't understand why he insists on me calling him "Dad," it's not like he's proud to be my parental figure.
I assumed it was another power play at making me feel like less of a person. A human is allowed to make decision for themselves, choose who gets to be in their life, it's their right. Animals don't always have that right, I don't have that right. I am a shell of a person.
My father bailed on us early on but at least he never got a sick sense of pleasure from striking children.
My mother wasn't always so corrupted. This new personality was remarkably intimidating and confusing for young Jessica when it manifested. The Jessica that still blew out candles for her birthday, wishing her father would come home.
Her sudden changes immediately elicited startling fear in me and made me wildly uncomfortable. I couldn't recognize her anymore. I've wanted for the longest for her to go back to her old self, to be the mother that I could sit with and talk to about my day, the one who would hug and kiss me when I was injured or hurting in general. But everything in me screamed that that woman was long gone.
"We're pulling you both out of school for some family time." My mom sneers in her hoax civil voice.
It was almost like she was annoyed at me for asking. She expected me to see them and just start walking side by side with them, going wherever they planned, like an obedient pet.
Her bag of untruthfulness was a lot bigger than mine and it held a lot more experience, but I could see right through her. Lousy no one else could.
The other kids in the hallway gazed jealously at us as they overheard that we were getting to leave school early.
If they actually knew what was going down they would know that there was nothing to be jealous of and it would register that they should stop with the longing glances and get as far away from this horror show as they could.
I was furious. Filled with rage I couldn't exhibit because it would be like hitching a ride to the land of unconsciousness.
The only escape I have from these soul draining, sleep depriving monsters is school and now they plan to invade that as well.
It was impossible to even be a kid anymore. I craved normalcy and consistency.
No actually, I craved a new identity—like a superhero, or a wizard. I would even settle for being an elf or something.
Frankly, all I need is parents who have their priorities straight. Not ones that get pissed because you said you were hungry, which is a completely normal reaction to being denied breakfast or dinner. But the ones who got livid when you got a C in math or got a detention.
If that were the case, my parents would adore me. The things regular parents flipped their lids about like messy eating, bad grades, or attitude— basically the things regular teens do, don't exist in my world. In a regular household I would be cherished.
I would be Kaylee.
It dawned on me that I had to make up an excuse, and fast. But it weirdly felt as if my wallet of lies was out of order.
"Well uhh..."
Stop stuttering Jessica and say the first thing that comes to mind. If it's not believable you're stuck with them and you get beat for lying.
"I have a really important test. The teacher couldn't get enough talking about how important it was. She was warning us, saying it was worth like— forty percent of our grade. I can't miss it."
My mom gave me the dirtiest glare she could muster while my sister rolled her eyes swinging each hand that was enveloped in our parents', resulting in her coiled curls bouncing back and forth as she eyed me.
"Come on Jess, one small test won't hurt. Plus it's excused, you can always take it tomorrow. This'll be fun, we get to ditch!"
Most kids would be ecstatic that their parents are taking them out of school.
To me school isn't that bad, and it's not a huge deal. I mean it gets boring and the amount of work is out of control, but all I have to think about is seven hours away from them. Seven hours of freedom. Seven hours of me not anxiously looking over my shoulder and the agony of school is washed away. It starts to feel like paradise.
I sighed under my breath because I knew I would never win this fight, and reluctantly nodded, moving to tread alongside them.
My shoulders slumped reflexively and I shoved my hands in my pockets feeling defeated.
As we walked, the psychotic woman that birthed me grabbed my hand and squeezed it as hard as she could in admonition. I felt my knuckles being squished together and my hand bending in ways it shouldn't. I was almost sure I would get a compressed fracture.
She bent down close to me and it seemed like a casual act on the outside. I was short compared to her so if she did actually have the intention of telling me something privately, this is how she would do it, but this was not a normal act.
She begins to hiss her words venomously in my ear, "Your little white lie won't go unpunished brat. I'm not an idiot and just wait till we're home. You'll remember who you're dealing with."
I was many things, but I was not a brat. I didn't even have time for the tittle. I was already so many other things— insecure, terror stricken, anti-social— but brat did not exist in my vocabulary.
Still, the thought of all the despicable things they would do to me and how they would disgustingly enjoy it made my knees feel like buckling.
Most kids got reprimanded and were scared that their parents would take away their phones, but I had to be afraid that I would die today.