Abuse

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


A short story about something that happens too much, but is never discussed.

Submitted: July 29, 2018

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Submitted: July 29, 2018

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Abuse.

I was shaking; I could feel the tremors trembling through my body. Slowly I opened the door of my wardrobe and peered out. Nothing. I sighed in relief; I was fine, for now. Suddenly I pick up the sound of keys sliding into a lock, I hear the door slamming, and I hear the stumbling footsteps of a drunken man. My breathing sharpens as I quickly but silently close the cupboard door. As the darkness surrounds me, I feel calm. I hear the footsteps blunder down the hallway, and stop right outside my door. I can hear him untying his belt from his pant, and then pushing the door open. Suddenly everything goes silent. No, no, no, this is bad. The wardrobe door swings open with a bang, and strong hands pull me up. I stare into his bloodshot eyes, they glare at me back, and I cower by his gaze. My body is pleading as he raises his arm, and then brings it down. All you can hear is the snap of the belt and my screams. My terrible scream that plead for help, but no one ever does. I scream again and again, as the pain lashes at me repeatedly. Just when I think it can get no worse, I slowly dissolve into the darkness.

The splash of water on my face always helps me calm down. I look up at my reflection in the mirror. Bruises and cuts are already forming on my face, arms and back. As I straighten up it hurts, it hurts from the pain, but it hurts even more knowing what happened. Never have I felt more scared, never have I felt less loved. The bruises over my eye catches my attention and I stare at my face, finally letting the pain and hurt seep in to me. Then I cry. I weep and weep until there is nothing left except a cold cruel rage settled at the bottom of my heart.

As I walk into the kitchen, he is frying some eggs on the stove. I go to get some cereal from the cupboard, but he stops me. He offers me the eggs, but I refuse. Does he really think that one meal will make up for years of pain?

“Listen, I’m sorry.” He mumbles, just loud enough for me to hear.

I ignore him, as I normally do. His apologies mean nothing. He follows me to the table and places the eggs in front of me.

“Really, this time I mean it.” His tone is remorseful, but I still don’t believe him. “I’m trying to change, I really am. It’s just so hard.” His voice cracks and he places his head in his hands. Maybe things will change; maybe the future is brighter that I thought. Although, he cannot just say he is sorry, he has to show it. I tell him this, and he gives me a tiny smile.

“I’ll try, love, I’ll try.” And with that, he grabs his coat and leaves, leaving me by myself, again.

The keys turn into the lock again, but this time I am not scared. I stare and the door expecting change. Instead, the same staggering feet stumble into the kitchen, with a bottle in his hand. Before any pain has come, before he even gets a metre away from me, a tear slips down my cheek. How could I even expect anything different, how could I be so stupid! I try to quickly get up and run to my room, but, as usual, his strong hands grab me and pull me back. I turn to face him, and see him holding the bottle over his head. I curl myself up into a ball, squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the pain. But it never comes. I hear a smash and uncurl myself. First, I see the bottle, smashed on the ground. Then I see him, head in hands, visibly sobbing.

“I’m so sorry, I never realised how bad I was. I’m a monster!” Even though his apology was mumbled and slow, I believed him. I bent down and hugged him.

“I love you dad, I forgive you.”


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