The clean smell of magnolias brushed my nose as I stepped into the foyer, the dark wooden floor creaking beneath my feet. Everything was the same as I had left, like it always was. There wasn't a single vase or book or rug that was even slightly out of place, because of my mother's obsession with giving off the illusion that we were a happy, perfect family. Her ignorance went so far that she pretended not to notice any new bruises or red burn marks that frequently popped up on my skin, never once stopped my father in any of his drunken tyrades unless company was coming over.
For that, I blamed her just as much as the man who had littered my skin with permanent reminders of his view of my worth.
The stairs to my right were wrapped with a garland of holly leaves, and I could just see the edge of an impeccably decorated Christmas tree that was set in the corner of the living room, no doubt put up just to show off to any of my mother's various coworkers that happened to stop by during the holiday season. The sitting room to my left that consisted of a stiff gray couch, a shelf full of classic literature, and a wonderfully large black piano was left undecorated, and for a moment I felt that familiar pull to the instrument, my fingers longing to play once more. The last time I had played had been years ago, before I realized my playing, no matter how proficient, always had a way of angering my father that just wasn't worth the joy it used to bring me.
An odd sort of sadness washed over me, and I tucked it away in the back of my mind, thinking that maybe once these two weeks of hell were done, I could find a piano in the Room of Requirement and let that distant feeling of beauty overwhelm me as my fingers struggled to find the right notes after all this time. I tugged the strap of my bag back onto my shoulder as it slipped down, and made my way as silently as I could up the stairs, trying to savor the last seconds of mental peace I would get until the new year.
Padding up the stairs, I saw that nothing was out of place in the second floor hallway either. The doors were all shut, the carpet was clean, and the rugs that were laid on the floor were straight and neat. My room was the last door on the left, the others being the bathroom, my mother's office, and the guest room. My parent's bedroom was downstairs, though I could hardly recall the last time the two of them spent any moment there simultaneously. I softly swung open my door, taking in the twin bed covered with a black comforter, the shelves lining the walls with books and a few photos and trinkets, and my white dresser, who's peeling paint had revealed last summer that there was an odd layer of gold beneath the white. Everything was pristine, as if no one lived there, and I guess for all intents and purposes, no one really did.
I did my best to make sure the only time I spent at home was the exact period of summer break, because that was about all I could handle of this hellhole. Sure, it looked wonderful, but the darkness and secrets that lurked beneath the perfection made the whole house spoiled.
Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, I took a steadying breath and set my bag down, ready to tackle this first encounter with my dear parents. A small knock on the doorframe came from my mother, who was dressed in her usual business casual, her hair in a tight, sleek ponytail that seemed frozen in time.
"Elaine," My mother said, her prim accent present even just in a single word. "How lovely to have you home for Christmas. It's been nearly six since you were last here for it." She opened her arms as if to hug me, but I stayed frozen in my spot by my bed.
"I know," I replied shortly, not bothering to note that she hadn't gone to the trouble of even asking me back until this year.
"Your father is here somewhere, I'm sure," Mum said, her botoxed brow furrowing ever so slightly. "He'd love to see you."
Anger, panic, and regret surged through me all at once. I couldn't believe she had the gall to mention that man to me, especially after the past summer. She probably had forgotten all about the way things had escalated, as it had nothing to do with her stupid job or her company.
I merely grunted in response, turning away from her form in the doorway and going to unpack my small bag that I had brought with me that contained only a few school books, my wand, a gift that Hermione and Cho had snuck into my bag, and spare Muggle money in case I needed it. I had clothes and books here, and though they weren't my favorite, I figured they would only cause a hassle if I brought more from Hogwarts.
"Elaine," Mum reprimanded, and I turned once more, my frustration illustrated quite plainly on my face.
"What."
My mother looked as if she were about to roll her eyes, and then thought better of it, choosing instead to release a slow breath. "While you are here, you're not to cause a problem, understand? No magic talk, no loud music, no messes. Your father doesn't like it, and I've got company coming by in a few days."
I shifted my weight to one foot, tapping the other impatiently. "You know I don't give a damn what that man thinks, and frankly, I don't care what you think either. I'll be in my room, like always, doing my best not to be a burden to the people who chose to have me," I sneered, that familiar contempt rising in my chest.
Not calming herself this time, my mother briskly strode over to me and grabbed my face in a tight grip; so tight that my jaw popped and I couldn't move my head.
Her eyes that were an exact copy of mine bored into me, and I did my best to hold my ground and not wince, but her long nails were digging into my cheeks. "You ungrateful child. Your father and I have given you everything you could ever want, and still you hold some silly grudge over things that were mistakes, and that your father apologized for," She said, a quiet rage infiltrating her voice.
I still held her gaze, not wavering, hoping that my complete disgust was shining through my eyes.
"Your father gets a certain way when he's drunk," I snorted, which was met with my mother's nails sharply pricking my skin, "and you know what sets him off, and you still choose to do those things. Really, Elaine, you'd think you would learn by now. He apologized for that scar, too, so what more do you want?"
I held my fury at bay, knowing it would only worsen the situation. He hadn't apologized, not really. To anyone else, her words might come as a shock, but having been on the receiving end of them for far too many years, hardly anything my mother said bothered me anymore.
What more could I want? No fucking scar in the first place .
I held back my words, though, as she let go off my face roughly and sighed, rubbing her temples like this conversation was giving her a headache. "Just...behave, okay?"
I grumbled a semi-coherent confirmation, and with one last piercing look, my mother turned and left, leaving the door open behind her. I grumbled again, going to shut the door before laying down on my soft mattress, rubbing my face as if it would soothe the pain.
What a terrible idea, coming home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next few days passed without trouble, my days confined to reading and studying in my room, sneaking down to the kitchen at odd times so that I could avoid seeing my father, who I still hadn't greeted since coming home. The last words he had drunkenly slurred at me were seemingly burnt in the forefront of my mind, and I honestly didn't know if I could restrain myself when I inevitably saw him. Neither crying nor lashing out at him physically seemed like the best idea, so I decided to practice that bit of self-preservation Professor Slughorn made me aware of.
It was honestly quite pleasant having a few days of isolation; I got a load of studying done, and I didn't have to deal with Malfoy, which is a wonderful event in and of itself. I missed my friends, so much that my heart contracted every time I thought of them, all bundled up together at the Burrow, warm, rich food and handknit clothing creating an atmosphere of ultimate safety and home . This house wasn't home. It was too cold, too angry, too poisoned with rotten memories.
Laying on my bed one night, unable to sleep, my brain whirled with unpleasant thoughts as the mark on my arm seemed to burn, begging for me to travel down that nasty road, the one that led to sadness and hopelessness. I did my best to push it away, but my brain insisted, and it ever so kindly began replaying the events of that night.
The house was dark when I got home, my parents surely having gone to bed by now. I had been out all day wandering around and reading at the little grassy park a few miles away from my house. That had become my daily routine this summer; a way to get out of the house and do something, anything, to take my mind off of constantly counting down the very seconds until my return to Hogwarts.
I was hungry after a day of not eating, so I walked quietly across the tile to the kitchen, where my father was leaned up against the counter, examining an empty amber whiskey bottle. I stopped once I saw him, my breath catching tight in my throat. I could smell the awful stench of whiskey and cigarettes that never seemed to leave him, and it was permeating the space, making my nose itch and my eyes burn.
My father glanced up from his detailed inspection of his bottle, his hands shaking slightly. "Where the fuck you been all day?" His voice was slurred, a bit too loud.
"Out," I replied simply, hoping to be able to escape without any major altercations, though I should've known my luck wasn't that good.
"Out," He mimicked me in a high, nasally voice that made me huff in annoyance. "Out where, you stupid girl?"
"Just out. I was at the park," I said, trying to keep my voice calm, trying not to let the fear push through.
He snorted, and stood up from leaning against the counter. "Fucking out all day, my ass. Come home and this," He gestured to the empty bottle, "Is fucking empty. It was full yesterday."
That I did roll my eyes at. He'd bought that two days ago and had drained it in less than 48 hours, as he did with every container of that foul liquid he brought home.
He caught my eye roll and stumbled toward me, grabbing the front of the black tee I had put on that day, his rancid breath making my eyes water. "Don't fucking disrespect me in my own damn house, you ungrateful bitch," My father practically spat at me, his grip pulling at the fabric of my shirt so that I couldn't back away.
Irritation sparked in me, and I let out a breathy laugh. "Your house? That's funny, Father. Don't remember you doing anything to help around here."
And I knew I should've held my tongue, and god, did I regret it the moment the hand with the bottle came smashing down on the black granite counter, splintering the glass into large, wickedly sharp pieces. Fear, more potent than I had ever felt it, enveloped my being, my heart beating so fast I thought I might've been having a heart attack. My father's hand was surely cut up, but I couldn't find it in me to even care at all, especially not when he held a large shard up to my throat, making me go deadly still. It had always been terrifying to see my father angry growing up, even before he started drinking every day and smoking those wretched cigarettes, but as the years progressed, his anger slowly grew and grew every time we had one of these unfortunate encounters. The first time he'd ever hurt me was when I was sitting by his feet watching a show at ten years old. His ashtray was on the table next to the couch he had sat himself on, but because of his drunken haze, he had missed and it landed on my bare shoulder. The burn hurt worse than it looked, but the real injury was the way that he had just cackled at my pain and moved on, never apologizing. It only got worse from there, to the point where I could barely recognize the man I used to love and admire so much. I grew older, and he grew less sober, and it seemed that everything I did had a certain way of making him blow up; by 11 I had all but become self-confined to my room just to avoid being in the path of his fury, and getting that letter from Hogwarts had given me back hope that I had lost far too young.
"You ever fucking talk to me like that again, and you'll never see that stupid school or those shitty fucking friends you claim you have," My father threatened, the glass lightly pricking the tender skin of my neck. "I doubt anyone willingly puts up with your fucking shit anyways."
I nodded tightly, careful to not press myself into the makeshift weapon he held. There were a few moments of stillness before he let go of my shirt, and quickly, quicker than I had ever moved, I tried to shove him away from me and sprint out of the kitchen. I caught him by surprise at first, but once he recovered from his stumble, he started after me, his drunken footsteps deafening.
Bounding up the stairs in the dim evening light probably wasn't the best idea, but it was my only option, so I took two steps at a time, cursing my legs for not moving faster. Closer and closer to the top of the stairs, to the security of a locking door I ran, but just as I was about to reach the top, I felt a meaty hand grab my ankle. I came crashing down, trying to twist so that I wouldn't land on my face, and ended up landing smack on my tailbone, pain radiating through my hips.
My father was only a shadowy outline above me, but I could've sworn I saw his figure swaying unsteadily right before he passed out, the alcohol overwhelming his system. Instinctively, as he fell, I threw my arm up to block the blow, as if the skin on my uncovered arm wasn't merely flesh and as thin as paper. The pain took a few moments to register, and before it did, before I felt the waterfall of blood pouring out of the cut, my father's unmoving body crashed to the stairs, causing a loud thump and the hand that held the glass still had come slicing down, tearing open my arm like it was nothing. I pushed his heavy form off of my other arm quickly, not sure how long he would be out. Stumbling to the bathroom, I cradled my arm to my chest as a stinging pain spread through it.
I slid down the door after shutting it, sitting briefly before pain shot up my spine from my tailbone, so I moved to sit differently when I saw the shining red liquid rushing out of my arm. The pain suddenly slammed into me full-force and my head spun, either from the loss of blood already or merely the sight of so much of it. I had to tell myself to think , to act quickly because I knew what this could turn into, and as much as it would be the ultimate revenge to my father, I wanted to see my friends again, see Hogwarts again.
Grabbing the pristine white towel that was hanging from the towel rack, I wrapped it tightly over my arm, putting as much pressure as I could on it without making myself pass out from the fiery pain that erupted every time I jostled my arm.
My legs were splattered with blood, my hands were soaked in it, and the floor was smeared with crimson streaks. The cut was deep, I knew that, but I didn't know just how bad it was, and as much as my stomach clenched and rioted at the thought, I began unwrapping the towel to assess the damage. As soon as I lifted the last bit of stained terrycloth up, the blood drained out of my face, and I had to take a deep breath to keep myself from losing consciousness.
The flesh of my arm was torn in two, the edges jagged and disconnected, moving grotesquely as I examined my limb. I could see the pink flesh of muscle beneath the ripped layers of skin, making spots appear in my vision. It was worse than I assumed; the skin of my arm was too loose, too far apart and I could barely manage seeing it for another second before I wrapped it tightly again in the towel, not caring that my rough movements were making my entire body heat with agony, and my vision pulsed with black before everything dimmed entirely, and I thought to myself: Maybe this isn't the worst way to go.
I had woken up the next day in the hospital, twenty-five stitches running through the inflamed skin on my arm, my head pounding and my mouth dry. My mother was there when I awoke, saying that my father had come by and apologized, and that the flowers on the beside table were from him, so the next thing I did was toss those directly into the garbage.
What a pathetic apology from a pathetic man.
I spent a few days there, before returning home and locking myself in my room for three days, not willing to take even the slightest chance of seeing my father. The third day I was starving, spots dancing in my vision, and as I was about to brave the house that existed outside of my room, my mother came in and informed me that my father had taken off on a month-long excursion with a buddy and wouldn't be back until after I left for Hogwarts. Though I wasn't sure if this was coincidence, or if my mother had forced him to go to avoid any arguments and to save her precious house, I was glad all the same. The way that the entire event didn't even seem to register with my mother was enough indication that I couldn't rely on her protection anymore, though I never really had been able to. As my father had turned to alcohol, she had turned to work, throwing herself in so deep I hardly saw her. I wondered endlessly why she stayed with him. And why him taking out all his rage and anger at his own shortcomings on me, simply because I was around, hadn't been a reason to leave.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the end of the second week, Christmas having come and gone a few days earlier with no celebration at the house. I hadn't seen my mother outside of a few random meetings in the hallway, as this time of year was "incredibly busy and you should know that, Elaine" which made me roll my eyes and wonder why she had fucking insisted on me coming home in the first place if she wasn't going to give me the time of day.
It was a Saturday, one I had spent intensely studying a portion of my Transfiguration textbook until my eyes felt like they were going to fall out, and I was feeling awful and lonely and empty, so I decided to get myself out of those seemingly ever-tightening walls and get a glass of water from the kitchen. It was late, and the lights had been switched off, so I stumbled my way down the stairs and round the corner into the kitchen, searching blindly for the switch.
Finding it, I flipped it on, and was greeted with my father standing, swaying , in the glow of the refrigerator, a sweaty beer clasped in his large hand. So many feelings flooded me that I lost my breath for a moment; the anxiety, the hatred, the pain all welling up to form a tangled knot in my chest, and I steeled myself for whatever this encounter might bring.
My poor excuse for a father only noticed me after I accidentally clinged my glass against a ceramic mug, making me wince. He turned around, his face a few days unshaven, his cheeks ruddy with alcohol.
"E-Elaine," He spoke, his grating voice scraping my ears. "Thought you were comin' last week."
I grit my teeth. "Did. Been up in my room, studying." That was about as much as I could manage rationally.
He thought for a moment. "Y-you and that dumb school of yours. Bet they don't even really teach ya anything, just--" hiccup "just, dunno, hypnotized the lot of you or some shit like that." He snorted at his own joke, his beer sloshing in the bottle.
"No. We have classes." Breathe, in, out, breathe.
"Stupidest shit ever, that's what it is," my father pronounced decidedly.
I didn't respond this time, bringing my glass to the sink and filling it up, the water spout moving far to slow for my taste.
"T-that's a gnarly scar," my father pointed out, as the arm that was reached out was the one he had graced with that ugly pink line.
I froze, all of the pain and fright rushing back in one giant, all-encompassing wave. " What? "
He gestured to my arm with his drink. "That scar, E." His use of his old nickname for me made my hands shake, my water now threatening to crash down into the metal sink. "Nasty one."
"Don't play stupid," I spat at him, setting my glass down angrily.
"Whadya mean?" My father asked, taking a swig of his beer, some missing his mouth and dripping down onto his dingy wifebeater tank.
Whirling around to face him entirely, I took in his pathetic form, feeling an odd sense of bravery well up in me---either bravery or complete stupidity. "You gave me this, you son of a bitch. On one of your fucking drunken tyraids that you ever so conveniently never fucking remember. Just like you gave me all of these," I lifted up the hem of my sweater to show a spattering of circular scars, "and these," I pulled down the shoulder of my sweater to show another set of identical marks, "as well as countless bruises and scratches and nasty words no self-respecting man would ever say to his own flesh and fucking blood, Father ." My words were wild, angry, and the small still-rational part of me suggested that perhaps I stop, perhaps I should just move on, but I couldn't , not with the way the fury and rage were vibrating through my very being. After all these fucking years being pushed around and mistreated, I was fucking done and I didn't care what standing my ground cost me. Nothing was worth this, and no amount of self-restraint had gotten me anywhere other than being treated like I was worthless, like I was a waste of space, and maybe I had a death wish, maybe I was a glutton for pain and punishment, but I think I had reached my breaking point. After eight years of my father, the man who had so entirely doted on me as a child that I had never asked for anything and hadn't gotten it, had finally made me wholly despise him. I had fooled myself in ever thinking the father that used to love me was still around, and I had held onto that even through all the fights and accidents and injuries, because accepting I had lost him felt like my heart was shattering.
"So don't you dare act fucking innocent, you piece of shit. You've made my life hell ever since you lost your fucking job eight years ago , because you've been wallowing in your own damn self pity ever since," I accused, my heart racing, my body trembling where I stood. "You're so angry at yourself because you lost your dream job, because you fucked up, that you have to take in out--" My voice cracked and my nose burnt with the beginning of tears, "that you have to take it out on your only child. But I'm done. I'm not letting you do that anymore, understand?"
My father's eyes grew wide in rage, and he rushed forward going to grab me, but I ducked.
"You little bitch! Don't say another word, or I swear to God, you'll never see another day," My father spat as he approached me.
"Don't touch me! I'm done with this. I hate you," I seethed backing up into the cold refrigerator door's surface. "Stay the fuck away."
"Like hell, you ungrateful brat. You think you can talk to your fucking father that way? I made you, and this is how you repay me?" My father yelled, throwing his beer bottle on the ground, sending liquid and glass scattering across the tile floor. "You're never seeing that school again, not after I'm fucking done with you," He threatened, moving towards me.
I knew I had only a few seconds to think before it was too late, and as I turned around to grab something, anything, from the counter next to the fridge that would protect me, my father's fist connected with the side of my face, agony radiating immediately from my cheekbone, and I cried out. I turned back around as he wound up to swing again, and I spotted a large vase on the kitchen island, whatever had occupied it being long dead and brown. Ducking once again under his arm, I grabbed the vase and brought it crashing down on my father's stupid fucking balding head, the noise so loud it shocked me.
The impact should've knocked him out cold; should've, but didn't. He turned around, his face stormy with rage, purple bits of glass in his hair and on his shoulders as he grabbed me, pinning me in place with his tight grip before landing another blow to my face, and a third to my stomach. I bent over, gasping for breath as he released me.
My face was so painful I could barely see, and I was taking short gasping breaths as he pulled me upright by my long hair, his face so close the beer on his breath was suffocating my nose. "You have until tomorrow morning to get out. You ever fucking come back here, and I swear, Elaine, I'll fucking kill you."
Though my face was on fire, though I could barely breathe, a strange sense of finality poured through my veins as I realized what that meant. Homeless, maybe, but free , no longer obligated to suffer through being his child any more.
All I could think about as he released me was leaving, getting to the sanctuary of my room, so I ignored the burning in my chest and scalp, the lighting bolts of pain shooting through my face as I dashed to my room, stumbling a few times in my haste. Slamming my door, I made sure to lock it before falling to the floor, silent sobs wracking my frame. I let myself fall apart for fifteen minutes, let myself feel all the anguish and fright and pain and loneliness that I had put at bay for the last two weeks. I let it rip me apart, let it gut me wholly, and when that fifteen minutes was up, I gathered myself together, and though my eyes were red, swollen, my left one hot with pain, and my tears were still drying on my face, I began shoving things in my pack, grateful that I had thought to pack light. Packing gave me a moment to actually register that I had just stood up to my father for the first time. For the first time, I had fought for myself, defended myself, because no one else had ever bothered to here. Pride welled up in me, and it gave me a new sense of self; I didn't have to put up with this awfulness ever again. Not just from my father, but from anyone.
I didn't bother to see what the state of my face was, as I was sure it was unpleasant and I had more important things to deal with. I put a few of my most prized books in there as well before deciding to grab one more bag to bring things that I couldn't replace with me. Books, pictures, a few items of clothing, money (Muggle and Wizard), and a few trinkets that had sentimental meaning were put in that second bag, and though it was nearly midnight, I decided I might as well leave now, because there was no use staying in this hellhole any longer than I needed to. I didn't even contemplate leaving a note saying goodbye to my mother, as she most likely wouldn't even notice I was gone, and she barely deserved that kindness, anyways.
As quietly as I could, I shouldered my two bags, opened my door and made my way down the hall, down the stairs, to the front door before pausing. Seeing the piano, my beloved piano, is when it all hit me. I was leaving. Relief swallowed me whole as tears of joy, of freedom swelled in my throat. I never had to deal with my mother brushing me off, or inviting all sorts of businessmen that made my stomach twist over. I never had to come back to this nightmare of emptiness, of sorrow and pain. I never had to see the faint pink stains that still remained on the bathroom floor, never had to see the fridge only filled with booze, never again would I have to be afraid of existing.
No, now I could finally break free of this hell my father and mother called a life. I had no clue what I was going to do, where I was going to live after this year at Hogwarts was up, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything as I twisted the lock open on the door and walked through without a second glance back, the freezing night air welcoming me with open arms.