Routine

My heart stopped in my throat. She was awake. And coming downstairs. To me.

 

My legs started trembling with fear. The anticipation was more than enough to kill me. She was coming closer, closer, closer. There was nowhere I could go. If I went it would only make things worse. It would only anger her any further.

 

by the time she came into the room, I was literally curled into a ball. I trembled, knowing she was there.

 

'Hey, sweetie,' she said, roughly pulling me up. She had been drinking again. Not that she ever didn't. It's just that sometimes she went more heavy than others.  This time she was well and truly drunk. I could tell by the loudness of her voice, the way her words slurred and the smell of vodka and wine that seemed to enclose me.

 

'So, what'd be now, sweetie.' Her face was pressed right aagainst mine. I trembled. My eyes closed. And thats when I felt the first pound on the head. That knocked me out.

 

 

I had been out cold for quite a while now, and I was still lying on the basement floor. There were cuts and marks all over my body. They would eventually turn into bruises. Another ten or so to add to the collection.

 

I checked my watch. Five minutes to four in the morning. I walked slowly, painfully upstairs and into my bedroom, grabbed my schoolbag and went downstairs. On my way out I grabbed a snack. It was all part of the usual routine I had gone through since I was five. i was now fifteen.

 

It was freezing outside. I crossed my arms over my chest and walked a few miles to the playground. It was my usual morning stop off, because it was so far away from home, and no one came near it. That meant no questions. Which meant no trying to keep the truth.

 

Various teacher's at school had asked about me, whether I had any problems. I had been through endless counselling. It was hard to find an excuse for the bruises, torn clothes. It was easier when I was seven. Icould always blame it on tree climbing, and playing. But it was getting harder as I grew older. I just made up stuff, but it was never convincing. Most of the time I had to just cover the bruises up. Not that i had enough clothes to do that. So I have to buy them. but then they are damaged.

 

That was the hardest thing. Keeping it secret. Sometimes I just wanted to tell someone but I couldn't. I never could.

 

And I doubt I ever will.

Author's Note

This is based on the song concrete angel by martina mccrowe it inspired this