" I can't do this anymore mom, you don't understand. You need help. You're dying. And there is no food in the house. Again! Jimmy doesn't do anything for us. Can't you see that? He's no good. He's providing you with more coke, and he doesn't treat us right!"
"You ungrateful bitch! Jimmy does everything for us. He treats me like a queen. The only reason he beats your sorry ass is because I tell him too! Your no good. Jimmy's the one that keeps the roof over our head. You're the one who's holding us back."
"ME? Who else take's care of Catlin. It sure as hell isn't you. Whatever little food is in the house for us I have to give to her, I bathe her, I wash her clothes, feed her, send her off to school in the morning. I protect her from that pathetic scumbag you call a boyfriend. I do everything for this family!" I snap angerly. " And my teachers called your cell and left a message by the way. They're concerned I have anorexia." I give off a harsh bark of laughter. "You hear that? Anorexia. Maybe I wouldn't look like a skeleton if we had food. Maybe you would have been able to answer and explain to them if you weren't to busy getting fucking high!"
"Oh fuck you, you're lucky to have the kind of family you do. Some people rape their little girls."
I shake my head and blink back tears. She'll never understand. I flop down on the bare matress on the floor in the next room. It's a dirty twin that Catie and I share.
I used to try to tell myself that she didn't mean these ugly words. Oh, how I tried to believe it. But our arguments always end this way. With an "I'm a privaledge spoiled brat, all because I'm not being molested. I know her way of thinking is warped it just has to be. This can't be normal. But what is? Is there that white picket fence American dream family in my future like I've dreamed? Or am I doomed to the same life as my mother, and her's.
No. I refuse to believe it. Not until I am proven wrong I must have faith.
I graze the cross on a silver chain around my neck lightly with my fingertips.
My father had given it to me. My father. A tear trickles down my cheek when I think about him. He was a good man. Didn't deserve my mother. He was with her before her nasty coke habit started.
Sometimes I wish my mother had died instead of my father. We were still poor, but we managed to make ends meet with him.He was an illegal imagrant from Chile. I do not know how he made it to New york City from there. But my father was full of suprises.
For instance, he deserved so much more than a dumb construction working job. He was a brilliant man. Before coming to America, he was a doctor. I don't know why he left. But it had to have been for good reason.
He had custody of me when I was born, and wanted nothing to do with my mother. I still visted on weekends, but god I would give anything to be with him again.
He taught me so much when I was little. After he learned an important fact about me. It is a secret though. We kept it to ourselfs because it is rare, and he wanted me to be treated like everyone else. I, Liza Parks, have an iodetic memory. That means I phyically can't forget anything. Like. Ever. I speak ten different languages. My favorite is spainish though. It reminds me of my father.
My mother hates that I am teaching Catie, but as far as I'm concerned, I should be the only one making desicions in that three year olds life. At fourteen, I'm practically her mother.
I sigh and stand up going to the bathroom and smoothing my wild hair down in the mirror. I want to forget my dad so I don't have to feel the pain anymore. But that task can prove difficult when you are a spitting image of him. Curly, dark brown hair, Caramel eyes, and olive skin, high cheekbones. The only traits I got from my mother was her slender figure and pretty good sized breasts. You can't tell now, due to my severe malnutrition, but before I started giving up my food for my little half sister, I was most definatly attractive for a young teen.
I leave the house without a word. They don't care or know what I do. Sometimes I don't think they know I'm gone.
I walk the streets of the Bronx to where Catie's daycare is located. I can barely afford to send her there with my job I've taken up at the local florist shop, but it's all worth it. Catie's too young for school, and I couldn't risk leaving her alone with my mom. Or that creep Jimmy who keeps staring at her in a way that gives me chills and makes my gut churn.
I pick her up and take her back home, where I make her a supper of spegettios. Once again she gets the majority of this. I bathe her and get her ready for bed, making sure she brushed her teeth.
When I'm about to tuck her in Jimmy bursts through the door. And he's drunk.
That means for certain I'm getting more bruises. I cringe before he even says anything. I turn around and tell Catie in spainish to go into her room and cover her ears.
It is the one little sentence I speak to her that inevitably sets him off. Like my mother, he hate's when I speak in spainish.
"What did you say you little bitch?" He incredously.
"Nothing." I answer, my voice void of emotion. I turn my head to find my sister has done what I've asked of her.
"You little Mexican slut, get on your knees."
And I so easily comply to his request, because I know if I don't it will be much worse.
As he grabs the sturdy wooden broom I use to sweep this dusty apartment I squeeze my eyes shut tight.
He lets go of all his angers on my back. Over and over he hit's the handle. It creates a sicking thud. I cry out involuntarily. I know I shouldn't of as this makes him beat harder. I bite my lips so hard it bleeds, trying to stop the screams that want to escape. I can feel the bruises blooming, my warm blood seeping through my dirty t-shirt. I am waiting for the sicking crack that breaks my vertibre, leaves me paralized. Or worse, dead.
When he is down out of exhastion I am crying silent tears. He walks over to the worn out couch and passes out as if nothing happened. I am shocked that the sickening crack never came. It is a miracle I am I can move as a crawl slowly to my room. Catie is there covering her ears like I ask. I tell her it is okay now. That I am okay. Though I feel far from it.
I subconciously make the desicion that I am done.
I sing my blonde haired, blue eyed sister a lullaby. I kiss her forhead, pack what little I have, and leave. Before I go I whispered to her small form. I promised her I'd come back for her. And though she was asleep, I had every intention of keeping that promise.
Tears uncontrollablly slip as I make my way into the dark night.
"M'am." I open my eyes. They are momentarily blinded by the bright sun, but I soon find myself looking up into the face of a very irritated cop.
"M'am, this is a public park. You can't legally reside here."
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