Little Daniella

A Story by Summer

This is a dream I had a few weeks ago, and it scared me quite a bit. I hope you can feel for the characters, mainly Daniella and Josh.

      "Stop yelling at me!" my mum.

      "I will when you shut up!" my dad.

      "Will you guys just stop fighting?!" me.

      "GO TO YOUR ROOM!" my parents said in unison.

      I sighed, and went down the hall to my room.

      "If you would just stop doing all that s**t, then we wouldn't be fighting about this!" my mum had her point. My dad spent his money on only the stuff he wanted; alcohol, drugs, TV, and fast food.

      "You could go get your own job!" my dad also had his point. My mum refused to work to stay home with me and my brother. I didn't mind, I would rather be alone, and my brother was never here anyway.

      I closed the door to my room, hoping that it would muffle the yelling at all, but it just came through the vent. I sighed, and sat down at my desk. I looked at the piece of paper on my desk. Thirty-two little spaces for words to fit into. My brother could fill those spaces with the most powerful words, written into songs, poems, stories. I couldn't imagine what I could write about. I'm just too plain.

      Plain me. My plain, seventeen year old self. Plain hair, plain eyes, plain, but clear skin. Plain height, at 5'7", and plain clothes. My brother had all the talent; writing, singing, playing instruments, sports. He also had the personality to have friends.

      I didn't have any friends. I was home schooled, and I never left the house, except to find my cat. My plain cat, that fit in with me and my plain room, with my plain house. I sighed once again.

      My stomach voiced a small sound at me, and I shushed it. It was Sunday, which meant I wouldn't get dinner tonight. I was only allowed dinner three days a week to save money, and I chose Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. I could eat one English Muffin with cheap margarine on it for breakfast everyday, and then lunch on days that I didn't get dinner.

      My brother ate everyday at his job, or at friends houses. I felt envious of him, but I never fought with him. I barely talked to him, or anyone. When I had yelled earlier, it was actually the first time I'd spoken in days.

      I looked at the paper again, and picked up the one solitary sharpened pencil in a cup at the corner of my desk. I didn't know what I was going to write, so I wrote my name, in the neatest printing I could muster. 'Daniella,' the paper now read. I decided to put the rest of my name too.

      'Daniella
      Freedom
      Jones'

      I paused, then put periods at the end of each name. I couldn't hear anymore yelling. That had been a fast fight.

      I stood up, and went out into the living room. No dad there. Kitchen? No mum there. I hadn't heard anyone in the bedroom when I'd walked past. I checked in the backyard, and no one was there. I didn't bother checking the front; no cars to check to see if they were home with. I went and sat in the middle of the carpeted living room. I sat there for who knows how long when I heard a car pull into the drive.

      My brother walked through the door a minute later. He saw me, and tilted his head. "Parents are..?" he didn't finish the question.

      I shrugged, and he walked off to his room. I heard papers shuffling, drawers closing, then he walked back out. "Bye," he said for the first time in what seemed like years, which it probably had been. I went to wave, but he'd already closed the door.

      Crunching gravel under his feet. Car door slammed. Reversing down the drive. Gone. I stood up to just see his trunk leave the view of the window. I padded softly to the kitchen, and grabbed a glass of water. My stomach protested; liquid was not what it wanted. I shushed it again, but it only went louder.

      I looked cautiously around me. No one was home. I softly opened the fridge door, and saw some left over rice, a couple bottles of beer, and a jug of milk. I took the container carefully from the fridge, and went to retrieve a fork. I leaned against the counter, and opened the little plastic see-through box. I tested myself to see how long I could not eat it for. Twenty-four seconds was my count, but it felt so much longer. I took small bites, cherishing every bite as I usually did.

      The back door opened beside me, making me flinch violently and drop the rice. It spilled across the floor. "What.. Are you.. Doing..?" my dad asked in a small, but stern voice. His deeply bloodshot eyes seemed to stare right through me. I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. A lump had formed in my throat.

      "I said, WHAT are you DOING?!" I flinched again, and knelt down to start cleaning up the mess. I felt a large object hit me in the back of my head, and I toppled into the rice. The throbbing of my head made tears come to my eyes, but I wouldn't let them out.

      I had known my dad had been abusing my mum, but now was just the proof of it. This was the first time he'd ever hit me before. I flinched and curled as I got kicked in the stomach. I would wait it out, I decided. Let him get his anger out, and protect my mum..
      ______________________________________

      Josh was awoken at his friend's by his friends mom. "JOSH! Wake up, and come read the paper!"

      Josh rubbed his eyes. "Whut..?" he said groggily to his friend.

      "I'unno,goseewhutseewunt.." he fell asleep again.

      Josh got up, and went slowly down the stairs. He saw the paper on the table, and then read the headline.

Girl Brutally Beaten In Home:
      Mother is Not Yet Found

      Young Daniella Jones was found late last night by a neighbor, dead and beaten in her kitchen.

      Josh couldn't read anymore. He ran to the bathroom, and threw up. He felt the tears streaming down his face, and he wiped them away as he kicked the toilet.

      "F**K!" -- his scream could be heard all the way down the street.

© 2011 Summer

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Reviews

Coyote Poetry

You create a very sad story. The detail and description was very powerful. I like the young girl. She may of been average but her skill were hidden. The ending was powerful. Violence and abuse leave no -one safe and secure. You wrote a scary story. Thank you. A excellent story. This was a bad dream.
Coyote