The Trading Card

A Story by Mindy James

The spring stuck in my back. The orange paisley pattern hurt my eyes when I looked, so I tried not to see anything but the book in front of my face.

I escaped into my book full of aliens, and heroes. At least I tried to escape. I could still hear my mother on the phone. She was talking to my father again. I had said a dutifully hello a few moments earlier.

“When can I see him,” she pleaded.

“She was talking about my brother. We were the only two of their children still young enough to be at home when they divorced.

I was with my mom.

My brother was with my dad.

“He really should come live here. He belongs with his mother.”

She paused listening to his reply.

“You can take Mindy. She can live with you. Then we are still even, you won’t have to pay child support.”

I continued listening for a few minutes hoping it was a joke. Maybe I had heard her wrong. Instead she tried to trade me again and again. I wasn’t really surprised. It wasn’t the first time, but I was ready for it to end.

I was the one no one wanted. My only use was as a bargaining chip for the only male child. I wasn’t even good for that since her offer kept getting turned down.

I looked around our small two-bedroom apartment. I grabbed a backpack and stuffed it full of some clothes and a lot of books. I grabbed a quarter off my mother’s dresser and slipped out the door.

I walked determinedly across the street to the gas station to the pay phone. I inserted my quarter and dialed my sister’s number off a paper I had kept with me for over a month.

When my sister picked up I knew that everything was going to be all right.

My sister was ten when I was born. She had raised me and sheltered me from what she could. She would do the same now. She had moved out at 18, three years earlier, and now lived with her husband and two young children.

“She will take me in,” I thought as I explained what happened. “I’m elven now. I’m old enough to help her with her kids.”

“Wait there,” she told me. “I’m coming right now.”

I sat on the curb by the pay phone. I searched every car looking for my sister’s beat up brown Toyota. Instead my dad’s truck pulled in.

I stood up and began walking away. I paused when my sister exited the passenger door.

“What’s he doing here,” I accused.

“It’s ok,” she told me trying to be calming. “He’s ok. Things are better now.”

“He doesn’t want me,” I shouted.

“That’s a lie. That is something Mom told you so you wouldn’t leave.”

I remembered. It has only been a year since I had last lived with him. A year since he had last hit me. My mind began racing and I thought of him teaching our dog to attack me. I thought of how he would make me stand on the outside of the railing on the second floor of our split level house. I had to hold on for hours hoping I wouldn’t fall and crack my head open. A thousand memories filtered through my brain, even the one’s I kept locked deep away.

“He’s evil. I can’t live with him.”

By now tears were streaming down my face. I hated when I cried. I hated to be weak.

“He’s better now. It’s ok. You need to go live with him.”

My sister was 21 and had protected me my entire life. What else could I do except get into the car?

My sister and father both lived in the same apartment complex. I got to visit her often.

I told her how I got the bigger bedroom, and my brother the smaller one. My room had the TV set that I had to share with my brother. I had put a few things on the shelves of the entertainment center. When my father found out he hit me and told me only my brother was allowed to use the TV.

He was also allowed to use it whenever he wanted. I complained when he walked in when I was changing. After I wasn’t allowed to close my door anymore.

There were other things. Things I wasn’t allowed to tell. So I tried to tell her without actually telling her.

Then I was no longer allowed to see my sister.

When I talked to my mom it had to be when my dad was home so he could listen on the other line.

Four weeks after I had arrived I was curled up under a chair listening to my father talk to my mother. I listened as he told her that now that he had both my brother and me he had all the power. She had to do what he wanted, and would start with making her pay child support.

I snuck out of the living room and into my bedroom. I shut the door, even though I knew it wasn’t allowed. I pulled out a small Swiss army knife I had hidden, and took it to my bed. It was fitting that I would do it here, where I was the most miserable.

I began to trace my veins with the knife. I started at the wrist and traced it up until I couldn’t see the vein anymore. I knew how to cut it so I would bleed out faster. I knew how to make it so I would actually die.

Now I had all the power.

Now I would make it stop.

Except I stopped.

Tears streamed down my face and I wanted nothing more than to have it all end.

Except, I couldn't.

I knew with everything that I had that I had to keep going. I didn’t get to die at eleven. I wasn’t allowed to give up. I had to be stronger. I wanted to be weak. I wanted to cut through my flesh and my veins and let my life flow out of my wrists in a river of red.

I closed my knife and wiped off my tears. Then I made a vow that I would never give up, I would never kill myself.

There was only one thing to do. I had to take back the power another way.

I walked out of my room and straight into the living room. My father, my step mother, and my brother sat on the couch watching TV.

“I want to go home,” I said.

No one moved, no one even noticed.

“I want to go back and live with mom,” I said louder.

“You can’t,” he said, never looking from the TV.

“I will go back and live with mom or I will tell everyone what you did to me.”

Now he turned off the TV and looked at me.

We battled for the next few hours. He told me no. He told me to go to my room. He told me he would think about it.

He belittled me and tried to intimidate me. Yet he couldn’t. This time I knew I was the one with the power.

I stood strong. I never faltered. For hours I never backed down. Near the end I began to see the fear in his eyes. For the first time I saw my father as a weak old man who got off on hurting others.

Then he yelled at me. “Fine if you want to go back to her so bad pick up the phone and tell her.”

It was his last test to see if I was as brave as I was acting. It was his last attempt to gain control.

But I walked right up to the phone and dialed my mother’s number.

“I don’t want to live here anymore. Please come pick me up.”

“Yes now.”

Then I hung up the phone.

“Fine,” he said.

Then he made me take off the watch had bought me for the new school year and pushed me out the door.

I stood, the ground covered in snow, in bare feet and a t-shirt until my mom showed up.

At eleven I learned that no one wanted me. I also learned that I was strong enough to survive that.

Author's Note

Any help with grammar would be appreciated. Catching spelling errors would be great. However, I would also like initial impressions as well as constructive criticism. Which parts do you love and which do you hate? Why? Also, is there any place it doesn't flow very well. Thank you!