I

The first chapter of narration where the writer begins to tell her story.

I

It’s around ten at night, and it’s a Saturday. I walk up to my front door. Everything is quiet and there are no cars in my drive. Mom’s at work and thank the stars her ex is out of the house. There’s a bitter chill in the February air that creates a razor sharp silence all around, piercing my lungs as I breathe in and making me feel saint like as I exhale the cutting cold from my body. Slowly I turn the key as though I’m expecting something…unexpected to arise. Pushing the door open I step over the threshold and feel an immediate sense of unfamiliarity.

     The living room is bare. The kitchen is bare. With the exception of the carpets and couches, it looks as if the place was gutted.

“Lily?” I call. Nothing. No furry, familiar face rushing to greet me, no wagging tail or wet nose sniffing at my clothes to wonder where I’ve been all day.

My f*****g dog is gone.

Hands trembling, I pull out my phone and dial numbers. And of course it’s one of those nights where no one seems to understand the concept of call and answer.

“Jay? I need you to call me… my dog’s gone, everything is gone, I don’t know what to do… call me…”

I slide down the wall that had been holding me up and sit on the living room floor. I’ve had some s**t happen in my life, okay? And maybe you don’t care to read about some prick who got dumped and took the fridge and the dog when he got booted out. But trust me, that’s not what this is all about. I just figured I’d save the fun stories about being locked in a dark dirt basement for later when the mood’s happier.

Yeah, that’s my sarcasm in case you missed it.

So now I lay in my bed staring at the white tile ceiling listening to music trying to get  my head around s**t like usual. I don’t call anyone because now I realize I can’t be around people tonight. It’s not something I can handle all the time, having company, and this is one of those times I can’t. Ironic, mostly due to the fact that one of my biggest fears is being alone.

So wanna hear that story about being locked in the basement before I drag you further into my twisted head? (Not that that isn’t going to happen if you’re reading this anyway.

Alright.

So my mother’s ex, the one that just booked it with my dog, is a f*****g nutcase. And I’m talking like grade A, first class nutcase. From the day he stepped in until a few months ago when my mother finally canned his a*s, he had a fun time making my life a living hell and trying to control me while acting like he was being a f*****g saint about it. He seemed to be under the insane delusion that I actually liked him and looked up to him.

Yeah, sure, I’d love my father figure to punish me for doing absolutely nothing at the age of five, six, seven, eight, by making me jog in place for hours, force me to sit on my hands for hours, and lock me in our dank dirt basement for hours on end with no food or any kind of sustenance. Hours on end of just sitting in the dark on top of the steps, being scared shitless that the boiler noises were some kind of monster that was going to come eat me. Hours. I can’t stop using that word. Don’t you love redundancy? My life seems to revolve around that wonderful concept.

Were you ever punished for eating food in your own house? Were your ever scared to make a sandwich or take a soda in case anyone noticed?

  When I was very young, if I “did something wrong” and wouldn’t confess or admit it (gee I wonder why that would be), he would just lay on top of me. Yeah. He was not a little guy. Like closing in on two hundred and fifty pounds, not little. And he would just lay on top of me, until I lost feeling in my body and finally came up with some made up story as to “why I did it”. Unbelievable, right? I wasn’t allowed to talk to boys or even be friends with them. I remember the one time when I got a C in my English class on a report card, he actually had the nerve to tell me I should kill myself.

I was twelve at the time.

Let me tell you, I learned to be sneaky because of that f****r. (I also developed claustrophobia and I panic if I lose the use of any part of my body.)

But I also lived in fear. Scared, that anything I did would be deemed as wrong or punishable. Scrutinizing my every action in fear of retaliation. Not exactly a wonderful nourishing environment to grow up in. But grow up fast is what I f*****g did. Well… in some ways. Other ways… I was woefully stunted by the fact that my social life from the age of- young- to about fourteen was virtually nonexistent. I wasn’t allowed to do much, and the friends I did have I didn’t see often outside of school.

Nonetheless, here I am, laying in my bed, wondering what the f**k I did to deserve losing my dog, one of the closest friends and companions I had. Oh, and by the way, in case you were curious, yes, my mother did let all those things happen. I think they call it blinded by love or some s**t. Love. What a fun subject. Not to jump from one topic to the next so quickly, but damn do I not know a damn thing about love. To fill you in on why I mention this, I just had my somewhat first real boyfriend. He broke up with me, go figure. It wasn’t something huge or monumental, because, well, I’m fifteen and in high school. Unfortunately it’s worth mentioning from my point of view because I guess you could say it was the first person I kind of cared about more than in a friend way and he was also the first person to hurt me- in more than a friend way. Damn do I not know how to deal with it. I’m well aware that it happens to everyone- first little relationship in school, first heartache, basically nonsensical bullshit that’s a part of growing up and becoming who you’re meant to be. Well, not quite having a normally functioning life and attempting to function normally in a social society do not mix. Too closed off to run to mom, but can you blame me after what I’d endured? Recovering from the bombshell that dropped and broke apart our demented shoddy mirage of a household, me thinking it was the best thing ever to finally have some freedom- well I’d say it hit this fucked up head a little harder than your average teen growing up in a small town.

The freedom came with a price, and I find it hard to put together the words to give you a measure of what it’d done to me.

I switch off the stereo and lay awake for hours.