Music and Nutella

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

Dominique is the girl everyone admires: she has loyal friends, beauty, talent, and a loving personality. But under her envied exterior she must deal with her abusive father, who's punishments are growing worse with his addiction to alcohol and drugs.

However, her best friends have a plan: Julian, the new French foreign exchange student, seems to be a match made in heaven for Dominique, perhaps her ticket to escaping abuse - but he's only got one year to stay. They're running out of time before they've even begun.

- - -

If you've seen this story before: don't panic. I did put the beginning up on an alternate account - trust me I wouldn't steal. :)

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Music and Nutella

Submitted: January 02, 2010

Reads: 761

Comments: 11

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 02, 2010

A A A

A A A

~ DOMINIQUE

There is no greater fear than the knowledge that you’re not safe at home. Or that’s what I think. I sit, frozen in time, on the carpeted floor of my room, my old guitar sitting faithfully on my lap, my fingers hovering over the next chord. My iPod still plays quietly through the headphones I’d just ripped out of my ears, singing a familiar song that has the gift of granting me comfort on nights like this.

But the roaring knock from outside had taken away that comfort as fast as it had come, and now I’m left helpless to the wrath of my drunken father. He hasn’t been home for three nights now, indicating that he’s more drugged and drunk than ever, back from a partying streak with his horrible friends, doing unimaginably awful things in bars and strip clubs.

My breath is quiet and ragged as I wait for what comes next. Maybe he’ll go away and spend the night at the nearby motel, leaving me alone for one more night. Or maybe he’ll pass out on the front steps and allow me to sneak out in the morning while he’s drowning in his hangover.

All these flames of hope are extinguished when the knock sounds again, followed by the muffled, slurred yell of my excuse for a guardian. I pick myself off the cool ground, beginning the unavoidable descent down to the front door. My feet drag on the floor, begging me to stay, but I know I can’t.

The only protection I have is the thin glass of my window, something that can be shattered by a full grown man with minimal effort. If he wants to come inside, and I don’t allow that, I’ll be punished much worse than if I just open the door now.

I pass through the dark hallway towards the front of my house, willing each step to be quiet. Framed by the luminescent light of the moon, I see a dark figure standing, hunched, outside. As I approach the shadowy figure, it’s too late to turn back, and my hand reaches out for the doorknob. Slowly, I pull, and a cold gust of air slaps me in the face.

“What the hell Dominique? What took you so long?” His scruffy, mumbling voice is like nails on a chalkboard after the lovely sounds of music, and I resist the urge to sprint back to the safety of my guitar.

“Sorry…” I whisper, avoiding his shallow, gray eyes.

His hand lashes forward, barreling into my left shoulder as fast as lightening. The thundering pain rockets through my arm seconds after, with such an overwhelming ferocity that my knees almost give out under me.

“You should be,” another voice growls – but it’s not my father. I gasp involuntarily and look up to see two more men, tall and muscular, and even more dangerous than my abusive father.

Suddenly, the first man lunges forward, catching my wounded arm and yanking me outside. I yelp and stumble forward, red hot pain blinding my vision and drowning the rest of my senses with fog. The man throws me on the ground, and I crawl backwards desperately. But lost in a sea of agony and fear, I forget the long passage of stairs below our porch, and I tumble backwards downwards before crashing into the pavement below.

I curl up into a ball, tears streaming down my cheeks, begging my body to lose itself to unconsciousness. The smell of booze and drugs fills my nose as the three men stand over me, laughing at me.

“She’s actually kind of pretty Rick.” It’s the same one who had grabbed me before.

“Do what you want,” my father responds groggily. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

A sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach as I realize what could become of me. My dad has hit me, kicked me, and slapped me countless times, but never have his disgusting friends dared to touch me. I can’t bear the thought of what they’ll do now that they’re too drunk to manage any respect.

Knowing that I can’t submit myself without a fight, I scramble onto my feet, fighting the flames under my skin. The second man, who hasn’t spoken yet, attempts to knock me back down, but his dulled senses are no match for my rush of adrenaline, and I dodge easily out of the way.

Somehow, luck joins my side, and I dive out of reach of the two men and begin sprinting down the moonlit street. I can hear their heavy footsteps pursuing me, and I honestly have no idea how long they can run in their state. But I don’t look back and keep running across town, bound for the warm house of my best friend Avery.

Three miles of exhaustion and hurting later, her happy suburban home comes into view. The men are only spots in the distance, still trying to catch me – expecting that I’d stop somewhere to rest. I dart across the grass and scale the fence into her backyard.

As always, the window to her guest bedroom is open. Avery had long since given up trying to convince me to do something about my dad, but she assured me that whenever I needed to get away, that bedroom would be open, and I could stay there as long as I wanted to.

Her parents don’t know, but only because I’d made her swear not to tell. I just slept there until dawn, then snuck out before anybody noticed I was there. Sometimes I’d tell Avery that I’d spent the night at her house, but other times she never knew – or didn’t tell me that she did.

Carefully but quickly, I pull myself through the window, welcoming the warm temperature as it begins to soothe the icy hot pain in my body. Once I’m safely inside, I close the window and take quiet, deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart down.

I’m almost calm when I hear footsteps, quiet and steady, but so precise it sounds like they’re only inches away. I hold my breath and wait, wondering if her parents are just outside, wondering what they’d do if they found me.

The footsteps come to a stop. And then the lights switch on.

I swear my whole body shuts down in shock as I stare at the person standing in front of me: a teenage boy with bed-head hair and gorgeous eyes. I know I haven’t come into the wrong house, but I know this boy is unfamiliar.

A stranger, staring at me in confusion, wondering why the hell a panicked girl with blood-stained skin and torn clothes is sitting, broken, on the floor of his room.

We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, both of us beyond confused. He has no clue why anybody would climb through the window of “his” bedroom, and I can’t begin to wonder why there’s a random guy staying in the guest room of my best friend’s house.

And then, a wave of exhaustion and depression sweeps over me, as if I’d been sitting on the wet sand of a beach, just waiting for that icy, salty water to crash over me. There’s no use fighting against the tears that begin to fall from my bloodshot eyes. I pull my legs against my chest and bury my head in my knees, trying not to let the stranger see me cry, though I know he will.

Every time another sob shakes my shoulders, I’m greeted with a stab of pain, bringing on more crying. I’m caught in a seemingly never-ending cycle of tears, curled up on the warm, carpeted floor. Though I can’t see him, I know the stranger is still frozen by the light switch, staring at me, watching me cry. He’s completely silent, and the only sound that fills the space between us is my shallow coughing and breathing.

I keep waiting for the tears to dry out, for my body to give in to sleep, but the relief doesn’t come. My eyes won’t stop leaking, my body won’t stop aching. The knowledge that I’m so lost in self pity is just another thing to cry about, and it this point it seems unlikely that I’ll stop before sunrise.

I almost scream when I feel gentle arms lifting me up, as if my body had been trying to isolate itself from any human touch. I let my arms go limp as the stranger pulls me off the ground with what seems like no difficulty. I avoid his gaze, still ashamed of the tears streaming down my cheeks.

I can’t even bring myself to be surprised when the boy pulls me closer to him, wrapping his arms around my waist in a warm, comforting hug. Involuntarily, I feel my stinging arms cling around his neck. And suddenly, there I am, caught in a soothing hug with a boy I’ve never met, sobbing into his shoulder, neither of us saying a word.


© Copyright 2020 Lucciola. All rights reserved.

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