OK, so I want to thank all those that became my fan because of this story - evilmindsbloomatnite, AmberxoTwilight and Kitycat :D Thank you!!! And another special thanks to LilianCarmine :D
.:Story Start:.
It was 9:27pm. Three minutes, more or less, until the dreaded moment. It always happened at 9:30 - I don't know how, but it was always irritatingly precise.
I tried going to bed and sleeping through it once. It made it worse - much worse. I couldn't show my face for a week. I tried to mask it with plausible things that could have happened, but never quite seemed to fit. No one ever believed me.
There was a scuffling and scratching at the front door. I tensed on a bar stool, closing the ancient book I had been reading. This was it. This was the moment...I slid off the chair, tensed and ready, waiting for it.
The door finally opened. Thuds and curses emitted from the hallway, guttural and foul. The stench wafted into my nostrils - alcohol.
"Ee-liz-ba," came a grunt from the hall. I supposed he was trying to say my name. Charming. I took a deep breath and walked into the hallway. "Ee-liz-ba!!!"
I turned to look. There he was, just like I knew he'd be. Stubble encrusted on his cheeks. Bloodshot eyes. A bottle of Carlsberg in his hand, empty, raised above his head while he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, squinting at me. I swallowed and glared at him coldly.
"Wheer - ma - breer..." he slurred, unable to speak properly due to his intoxication.
"I think you've had enough beer for tonight," I replied sternly, bravely stepping forwards and holding out my hand for the bottle. He glared at me. "Gimme - ma - breer!!" he shouted, clenching the bottle hard in his hand. I shook my head firmly, my palm still outstretched.
He took three steps forwards - unnaturally precise - and swung the bottle round. I ducked, and took a step back, ready to retreat to the bathroom and lock it as I had done so many times before.
He staggered forward again, and this time his bottle came into contact with my right shoulder. I cried out in pain as it smashed and blindly fumbled for the remains of the bottle, trying to wrench it out of his grasp, but he just grabbed my wrist and twisted it round. It was impossible to escape from his iron grip - he was skinny but wiry and tough.
My leg kicked out and hit his leg, and he grunted in pain, and, already unbalanced, fell to the floor. I crawled away, slumping against the opposite wall, clutching my bleeding shoulder, probably digging the shards of glass further.
He grasped the stair post and, with more strength than I thought possible for a drunken man, heaved himself upright. One arm still hooked round the stair post, he waved the destroyed bottle at me.
"Gimme - ma - BREER!!!!" he shouted, his face colouring red in fury, spit flying from his mouth. Cringing away, I still denied him alcohol. We had none anyway. "ARGH!!" he shrieked, and lunged forwards. The jagged edge of the bottle was inches away from my face before I dived of the way. He kept going and smashed into the wall, dropping the bottle and yelping.
I stumbled as I tried to stand upright, heading for the stairs, but he was quicker - he tackled me and punched me in the face, his knee in my stomach as I lay in the hallway gasping for air. He punched me repetitively and, out of desperation, I punched him back. With a cry of fury he buried his thumbs in my windpipe, wrapping his fingers round my neck, cutting off my oxygen supply. He was made of stone, I swear - I could not budge him an inch.
I was probably turning purple - the helplessness of just laying there as he strangled me was unnerving, I could do nothing, say nothing. I was willing myself to scream - but I knew no one would come. I squirmed, my mouth opening and closing like a fish, when finally he let me go. He fell back wards with a grunt, glaring at me. I massaged my neck and inhaled and exhaled quickly, savouring the ability to breathe.
"BREER!! NOW!!" he roared, his eyes bulging in his rage. Taking advantage of his seated position, I raced to the stairs and sprinted up them. I heard him swear at me and shout at me, but there was nothing he could do as I bolted myself in the bathroom, tears falling endlessly down my cheeks.
~*~*~
The pain was unbearable. It tore my shoulder open, almost literally, making me shake uncontrollably, sobs racking my body as my flesh burned. I fell forward, my forehead hitting the edge of the bath, and gripped the edge, pushing down, trying to stand upright. My shoulder screamed from the effort and I grunted, letting my knees hit the floor and the blood flow into the bath. A blood bath. Literally. I gripped my shoulder, closing my eyes, breathing deeply, desperate for it to stop. But the agony continued, ripping me apart and making my eyesight blurred...
~*~*~
When I woke up, I was lying somewhere soft, warm and comfortable. Definitely not home, then. I could feel soft material covering me and I could sense bright lights although I refused to open my eyes. My eyelids felt so heavy, so impossible to crack open...and then suddenly, they were open, and I was staring at a ceiling with white boards framed with metal, interspersed here and there with strip lights. From what I could see above the rail holding up vertical sheets of green material.
It took me a moment to recognize where I was. It hit me as suddenly as he had last night, but it didn't hurt...I was just confused.
What was I doing in a hospital?
Surely HE wouldn't have taken me...he probably just threw up in the hall, passed out, woke the next morning with a splitting headache and went into a rage about the lack of food before heading back to the pub. So who did?
I rubbed my eyes with my left hand - my right shoulder still restricted any upward movement - and yawned, suddenly tired again. Were they drugging me? I wouldn't doubt it. The curtain suddenly swung open partially and a man walked through, fairly short, but stout, and black. His gold glasses twinkled in the artificial light.
"Ah, you're awake!" he said in a soft, musical, African accent.
"Yes..." I realized my voice sounded groggy. Grr. Drugs.
"I'm Doctor Ojuharawa. If you don't mind me asking, what's your name? Mr. Collins said he had no idea who you were."
"Elizabeth Johnson," I croaked, swallowing, trying to revive myself. "And who's Mr. Collins?" I added. I hadn't heard the name.
"The man that called the ambulance when he found you and an incapacitated man at your house." I cringed.
"Was the man awake?" I asked. The doc shook his head.
"No, completely passed out. Too much alcohol," he said. "He's here, in the hospital. Do you have any idea who he is?"
"He's..." I just managed to bring myself to say it, knowing the look of horror would follow. "He's my father,"
~*~*~
The next day, I was staring at the opposite bed, which was vacant. The one next to me was occupied by a girl a couple of years older than me who kept avoiding my gaze. I couldn't help but wonder if she'd heard mine and the doc's conversation yesterday.
"Your...father?" he asked, looking at me concerned. I nodded, gazing blankly at the bed cover. "Is he the one that did this to you?" I nodded again, unable to speak. I was about to cry, I knew it. My father had almost killed me. He had beaten me. And now I was in hospital. I looked up into the doctor's eyes, and sighed, starting my story.
My voice was a little weak at first - stuttery and juddery due to lack of use - but it grew stronger as I continued. It faltered as I tried to tell him about dad strangling me, but I held up and continued. Once I had finished, he was looking at me with concern I had not seen in years.
Yes, that had to be it. She heard our conversation. About my father, my own father, beating me to a pulp and suffocating me...I couldn't think about it anymore. I could only stare aimlessly ahead, my body too weak to move.
I heard footsteps along the corridor. I ignored them, presuming they were visiting someone else.
I was wrong.
The footsteps stopped next to my bed, and I looked up to see a man standing awkwardly, with golden-brown hair and anxious blue eyes. He was gazing at me with concern, too. It was a little odd, being ignored, hated, beaten for years, and then suddenly all these people pitying me...
"Hello, Liz. My name is Neil Collins. I'm the one who called the ambulance..." My eyes widened, and I, not quite smiled, but my expression lifted a bit. It seemed impossible to smile now.
"Thank you, Mr. Collins! I don't know what I would have done..."
"How's your shoulder? You were in pretty bad shape when I found you." I flexed my arm slightly, rotating my shoulder. It twinged, but didn't hurt as much as I thought it might.
"It's better, thanks," I said as politely as possible. "If you don't mind me asking...why did you come to our house? No one ever does, he always does it, and no one comes..." Neil stared at me like I was crazy.
"They don't?" I shook my head, bewildered. Why should they? "What kind of people are they?" he asked, outraged. I shrugged, leaning back against my pillow.
"We've never been particularly popular. It's not a brilliant area anyway, the people don't really care about anyone. My dad's not the only alcoholic in our area." He frowned.
"Maybe rehabilitation would be a good offer, then?" he asked. My face must have lit up in the closest thing to a smile yet, because he laughed.
"I can tell that's going to be popular," he said, his eyes twinkling. I sighed, closing my eyes, relieved. Dad's going to rehab. I thought those words over and over in my head as I drifted off to sleep, elated with the news.
~*~*~
Four days later, I was sitting at home, searching through the fridge for an apple. Thanks to Mr. Collins, I would have food delivered every week by Tesco, at a fraction of the price it originally would have been. Dad was probably at a pub somewhere - Mr. Collins would take a while to arrange things, but he said he'd be as quick as possible and would check on me every day.
I took one out and sat down on my favourite bar stool, contemplating what life would be like when dad was better. There would be no bruises, scratches, broken bones. He would find work and I might make some friends. I was so desperate for this life to exist that I told my dad, over and over, in my head, not to mess up or go back to his addiction again.
Thinking about friends made me cringe - school tomorrow. I had a black eye and a bruised cheekbone, they wouldn't go away for a while. Not to mention bandages that would be difficult to explain when getting changed for gym. I was terrified of school - the people there that could cut me down, the teachers who wouldn't give a damn, and the long, grueling hours spent in a classroom, enduring taunts by 'fellow' students.
That was how it had been for 5 years of my life, since The Accident. And it probably wouldn't change here.