Pain radiated through me, almost as if it was a second, sorer heartbeat. Shattered glass littered the floor, and the stickiness of fresh blood clung to the left side of my face, getting in my strawberry blonde hair. I stood up carefully, wincing at the pain shooting around me. My abusers, my mother and step-father, John, were gone, of course, leaving me to deal with the mess they had created.
Slowly, I made my way upstairs to my room, making a hot shower the first of my priorities. Every mini-task involved in just that was a real effort, and only made my body feel heavier. I did it, however, slowly but surely. Then I slipped on new clothes, applied thick layer of eyeliner on the top and bottom of my eyes, and added a layer of wine-colored lipstick on the bottom. A bandage was placed over the cut on my forehead, and concealer coated every single bruise.
This was basically my every-other-day routine. One or both of my parents would come home, violently drunk off their asses, and start beating the shit out of me for no particular reason. I had nothing against drunkenness or drugs, quite honestly; my dad was no better. However, I didn't like to tolerate users that were violent when the toxin took its effect. To me, there was a distinct difference. The only reason I stuck around was because she was my mother.
"What does she need me for, anyway?" I mumbled, descending the stairs to begin the tedious work of restoring the house to cleanliness. "All she cares about is her shit boyfriend and her drugs." And it was true. The only two addicts that let drugs overshadow every other aspect of their lives, and it had to be my parents. "Why the hell do I even bother staying?" But where would I go? It wasn't like I had anything stopping me, but I didn't have any money, or anywhere to go. Except to my father.
Under most circumstances, I made it a point to avoid staying with my dad for too long. It wasn't like he was some normal dad, exactly; he was Michael Starr, the cocky, horny, mogul singer for the comedy glam band, Steel Panther. It wasn't that I didn't like him or the band, though. I wasn't the kind of person that particularly liked to be in the spotlight. Then again, I'd never really given it a chance, but still.
Honestly, I'd have to be willing to risk my privacy. Nineteen years of this abusive bullshit was quite frankly enough for me. I wasn't a saint; I drank, I smoked pot, and I was just a bit of a bitch. However, I knew my boundaries. I would never, ever lay a hand on someone, let alone my own kid... and I would never stay with someone that used me to get heroin.
Hastily, I did a half-assed job of sweeping and cleaning the house, enough so that my parents wouldn't exactly notice that they'd destroyed it yet again. As soon as I finished, I rushed up the stairs, though I was unsure of whether or not I should pack first. However, considering I had time before my mom and her boyfriend would be back, I decided to pack.
I filled my suitcases (I had two) with the works; clothing, jewelry, toiletries, my extensive collection of makeup, my diary, my sketchbook, my record and cassette collections, posters, and any other thing that remotely belonged to me. Worst case, if my mom came back, I could unpack my things.
My arm trembled, partly from the lasting pain and partly from nervousness, as I picked up the phone, slowly dialing my dad's phone number. I felt a gut-wrenching pain in my stomach. It felt so weak to have to resort to something like this, not that it was a bad thing, but it shouldn't have been necessary. Dial tone started to ring into the receiver as I took another deep breath.
"Hello?" A voice answered simply, and I knew it wasn't my dad.
"Uh... is Michael Starr there?"
"Nope!" The guy laughed. "But I am, if y'know, you're up for a good time."
I rolled my eyes. "It's Melody, his daughter..."
"Oh, fuck! Shit, I'm sorry. It's Satchel! How're you doin', kid?"
I laughed a bit, easily forgiving the guitarist. "It's been alright, Satchel. I, uh, called to see how dad would feel if I asked to move in..." There was a brief silence on the other end, and then he asked why I would ever want to live with my dad, especially now. So, reluctantly, I explained myself, and then there was another silence. "Give me a sec?" he asked, and I complied.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, someone picked up the phone. "Melody? Satchel told me you wanted to talk to me?" It was my dad; I'd know that voice anywhere. Satchel, that fucker... I reluctantly repeated myself, this time my voice more shaky. I felt stupid, really, but I had to do what I had to do.
"Of course you can stay!" he finally announced happily. "How about this; I'll fly out and pick you up, and the guys'll fix up the place?" I heard a groan in the background, and I couldn't help but laugh a bit. "Obviously you'll have to deal with our shit, but heck, maybe you'll make something of yourself! Uh, something famous, that is."
I laughed again, a genuine smile piercing my lips. "Sure, dad," I replied calmly. "Uh... I'll meet you at the airport..."
"Tonight," he finished. "Can you get there?" He sounded genuinely concerned, which actually relieved me. It meant that he cared.
Once he hung up, a rush of adrenaline coursed through me. Finally, I would be getting out of my toxic life. I knew there was a good enough chance that I wouldn't exactly be living in luxury, but anything was better than a 'family' that didn't even care about you, or at least respect you. Now, there was only one obstacle to the beginning of a new life; getting to the airport. Truthfully, it wasn't a long walk, but it was a matter of getting out of the house and to the place without someone that knew me walking by.
Suddenly, I heard the open-door slam of my step-father; mom never slammed the door, for some reason. "Fuck," I muttered, opening my window and shoving my suitcase out of it. The creak of the steps began to ring in my ears, and I felt my heart drop to my stomach. In a leap of faith, I jumped out the window, not even bothering to close the window behind me. Then I grabbed my suitcases and made a run for it, out to the woods. He would never find me there.
The woods were my sanctuary, and I spent a fair amount of time there. As a result, I knew them like the back of my hand, almost like a shortcut. I tried my best to keep my head straight, but at the moment, I was concerned with just running away, so much that he could never find me. After a few minutes, I stopped to take a rest, not seeing anyone there.
Just in the very corner of my eye, however, I saw him step out from behind a tree. He had a knife in his hand, and the second he saw me again, he ran for it and so did I. Clutching my suitcase close, I darted among the trees, hoping that soon I would find a place to hide until my step-father lost me. Eventually, I found myself sitting on my suitcases behind a pile of trashcans near someone's house. My pursuer lost me after a few minutes of searching, however, I ended up being safe.
The rest of the walk to the airport was spent in paranoia and fear. I didn't know where in the hell I was going to meet my dad, let alone how I was going to pay for the plane ride back. I had a few dollars with me, though, which would be good for the few hours until my dad arrived. At least I was safe now, though.
So, I made my way to one of the cafes in the airport and got myself a coffee, the only way I liked it; black. Weird looks were being shot my way the whole time, and I could tell why. I was wearing a cropped KISS shirt, shredded jeans, converse, dark makeup, and I looked like I had been crushed by a tree. I merely rolled my eyes, kept to myself, and sipped on the hot, bitter coffee. The rest of my time was spent writing songs. I used to play the guitar secretly. I would never perform any of my work; it just gave me a sense of personal happiness.
"Melody?" a voice asked, jolting me awake. I sat up instantly, blinking and groaning at the disturbance of my slumber. The voice laughed, and I looked up to see my dad staring down on me. "Jesus Christ, Mel, what happened to you?" I chuckled, standing up and hugging him instead of answering the question. He was my saving grace and, despite his partying and such, he was a great dad in his own light.
He hugged me until I was ready to let go, but then he looked at me again, not forgetting his question. Sometimes, my dad and I never really had to say anything to each other; we just knew what the other was thinking. Now was one of those times. "Mom, John... It's fine." His eyes looked up to my head, and I looked up as well, only to see a leaf stuck in there; damn. "Oh... He might have chased me out the window and through the woods..."
Thankfully, he didn't ask for any other details. Plucking the leaf out of my hair, he took my suitcase and chuckled a bit. It wasn't very light, though, it was tense, like he was trying to control his anger. He was keeping himself together rather well, though, I had to admit. "Well, our flight leaves soon. Uh, I gotta warn you, there have been some fans chasing us around..."
Shrugging, I looked up at my dad, biting my lip. "Eh, I'll have to get used to it anyway, it's fine." It was true, and honestly, I knew my dad loved playing up the fame. It wasn't fair of me to try to stop him, not at the age I was at now. So, I braved it, awkwardly clinging onto him as he greeted every single fan until we got on the plane. Once it took off, it was just the two of us to talk.
And we did: How I was, how he was, how the band was, what I was interested in now, and all that lovely stuff. Then, he decided that here, where I had no escape whatsoever, he was going to get through the awkward stuff; oh joy.
"Any boyfriends, or uh, girlfriends?" I shook my head, offering no explanation. It wasn't that people didn't want to date me; I just didn't want to sleep with them, and they knew it, so there were no relationships at all. "Well, I know you're grown up now, but I'm still gonna watch you. You can drink, uh, smoke if you already do, but don't even think about anything else. And please, don't fuck my band, or any of the other bands. Well... don't be a whore."
I glared, giving him a look. "I'm not that stupid. Besides, I'm nineteen..." I chose to leave out the fact that I was still a virgin, more for my own pride than anything else. My dad looked at me, and then sighed with a laugh. I laughed back awkwardly, ignoring the fact that there were people watching us converse. I didn't know whether it was because Michael Starr was on the plane or because he told me not to be a whore, but I just wanted to get to the Panther Mansion as soon as possible.
The ride home, of course, was nothing less than the glam rock celebrity treatment. Half-naked girls and sweaty fans chasing the limousine we were riding in, loud, endless screams, and of course, a sunroof that my dad was standing out of, soaking in the attention. I stayed in the limo happily, just watching it all go on. Finally, however, I saw the brass gates and sighed in relief; I was home.