Darkness Around The Sun.

A small unique act of resistance against a father.

It's dark, like pitch black, but my eyes were already adjusting to the dim light of the moon shining through my window. An Eternity passed without so much as a rustle of my sheets; another and another flew by until it felt like all time had stopped. The door creaked open sending a stream of artificial yellow light breaking through the darkness. I saw my mothers' face, pale in the yellow light, peer through the crack she had just made. She glanced at my bed, checking if I was there and asleep. My eyes we're closed, and I was snoring, which satisfied her. She slowly sewed up the crack in the dark, which resulted in a small clicking noise when the door finally closed. Time does this funny thing when you're waiting for something.

I'm 2, and I'm drawing triangles in the carpet.

I'm 3; I don't want grandma getting in the pool for swim lessons anymore.

I'm 5, I'm the youngest in my class, I get to start school earlier than everyone else, I feel special.

I'm 10; I'm in summer school, looks like I wasn't that smart after all.

I'm 12, I'm bleeding, My dad got mad at me again, why don't I ever learn?

 

 

I hear soft snoring, that’s my queue. I methodically roll out of bed, peeling back the blankets, knowing exactly where and when to shift my weight to keep the squeaking to a minimum. I tip toe, as well as any awkward 13 year old can, to my closet, slide the mirror door back and grab a pair of mismatched socks, essential for sneaking about on hardwood floors. I slip on the oversized socks, and make my way to the stainless steel giant who resides in our kitchen.

 My Mother made roast chicken and mash potatoes for dinner and the sweet, robust aroma still lingered in the air. I stare at the large metal giant standing before me; a treasure awaits me behind its locked jaws. I grab the handle and pull. The giant relinquishes his hold and opens its jaws. I stare wide-eyed and shocked at the surplus of delicious food lining the shelves.

What will I pick? Leftovers from the dinner I wasn't allowed to finish? Maybe I'll opt for something sweeter I know there are cookies in the pantry. Forfeiting my grasp on the jaws of the huge beast, I close the door to the fridge.  I shuffle across the floor, careful not to make any sudden movements or loud noises; I feel my way along the counter and to the cold metal handle on the door of the pantry. A dry, grainy blast of air hits my nose as I walk in. I locate the cookies in the organized mess we called food, grab the cookie package and stuff it under my shirt, holding it in place with my arm plastered to my side.

  As I start the perilous journey back to my room, the great metal giant speaks: "You know what would go great with those cookies you've got there? A nice cold glass of milk." he offers, not waiting for me to reply. I agree, and I grasp the jaws to his hidden treasures. It’s easier this time, and soon enough I've got a nice cold glass of milk to company my cookies. I look down the hallway which seems to keep stretching on and on, into infinity.  This was always the most exhilarating, yet terrifying part, sneaking back across without waking up the sleeping dragons. I pick my feet up slowly, and place them carefully onto the floor, trying not to make a sound. Suddenly, I see it happen even before it does, I feel the cookie package slipping, and as if my arm is paralyzed, I don't stop it from falling. It hits the floor, if had been any other time you would have hardly heard it. But it had to be right then and the crash was like a bomb.

I'm 2, my nickname is uncle Fester, and I don't have any hair.

I'm 3; I'm in the car, the moving trucks in front of us, on our way to Washington.

I'm 5; I'm in the car, the moving trucks in front of us, on our way back to California.

I'm 10, I'm sitting on the bench, I'm always last to bat.

I'm 12, I'm bleeding, My Dad got mad at me again, why don't I ever learn?

I hear a jolt in my father’s snores, and my heart freezes, or maybe that’s just my irregular heart beat. Either way, my body is frozen in terror. If I wake my dad up; I don't think about what would happen. But as soon as I had heard the fault in his snores, they settle back into a deep rumble. My nerves start to work again, and I bend down to get the cookies, and slink back the rest of the way to my room.

I go straight into my closet and slide the door shut, break open the package, dip the little cream filled black cookie into the milk, repeating until all the cookies are gone. I relish in my silent victory.  But I start to come back to reality I realize that eating all of those delicious cookies was not my best Idea.  My parents would notice that they were missing now; the whole package was gone.  Oh no, I sit frigid in place.  My dad would find out first, he’d drag himself into the kitchen to make breakfast for him and my mom. He’d open up the giant’s jaws with ease, because he doesn’t believe in that sort of thing anymore.  He wouldn’t notice the milk, my little brother drinks milk all the time in the middle of the night. He would just assume it was him. Then he would proceed to pull out the eggs, bell peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes, and bacon. Then he’ll go to the pantry…

I’m 2, my grandma is taking care of me, and my parents are working.

I’m 3, My Father takes me fishing with him, and I “catch” my first salmon.

I’m 5; my mom is throwing all the things I didn’t pick up in to a huge black trash bag.

I’m 10, I cursed in front of my family at Christmas. I didn’t get my presents that year.

I’m 12, I’m bleeding, Dad got mad again, I never learn.

I was 12, I don’t remember what I went out to ask my dad, whatever it was, it really got under his skin. He yelled a lot, and told me to go back in the house to my room. I turned to walk back up to the house, I took two steps, I didn’t move fast enough for him. He took two bounding leaps towards me and knocked me down to the ground. I fell, face first, into the Flagstone steps that lead to the pool.

 The rusty iron taste of my blood dripped slowly into my mouth. I raised my hand to my forehead and felt the warm sticky substance on my fingertips, I’m crying, My dad is still yelling, “Get up, what the hell are you doing?!” He picked me up and pushed me towards the door.

He doesn’t realize what happened; he just thinks that I’m crying because I’m a girl.  I run to the sanctuary of my room, and straight to my closet. I look in the mirror, my lips busted, and my forehead looks like minced meat. I slide the door back, and hide behind my clothes rack.  The tears spill over my eyes, and the rusty tang of blood fills the air, and I sit there, letting the ruby red drips slide down my cheeks to my chin and then fall into my lap.

I hear heavy footsteps make their way to my closet door. “Rachel Marie Bowman! What the f**k is wrong with you?” and he pushes back the sliding door to my hiding place. “He looks down at me, cowering in the corner, bloodstained and tearstreaked. “Get up. What the hell do you think you are doing in here? Hiding from your problems? What good is that going to do you? Get up! Now!” Slowly, I stand, sniffling, my right cheek entirely covered in my own blood, my lip swollen to the size of a small animal. “Stop crying. You aren’t a baby. Go wash your face, you aren’t any use to anyone like that, go wash your face and then go clean the kitchen. After that you can switch laundry and clean your room. STOP CRYING!”

My silent victories, in the darkness I spite him, I’m not his beautiful daughter anymore.