The sound of that old door opening and revealing the creepy entrance already gave me chills. My expression quickly changed as I set foot in that house. The first light cutting through the oppressive darkness was the glow of the television, where my father sat slumped on the sofa, a drink already in his hand.
"Riley, you bought what I told you?" He demanded.
"Yes," I replied. I left the beer he told me to buy carefully on the table, trying as always not to step on the pieces of glass on the ground.
"What, just six!" His face twisted into a snarl, his anger clear before he even finished the sentence.
I felt a tremor run through me as I spoke, my voice barely a whisper. "The shop didn't have enough. I bought what was left. I'll get more tomorrow."
Without a word, he hurled the empty beer bottle, the one he'd just drained, straight at my head. I stood perfectly still, not moving, not speaking. I knew that if I remained silent and simply endured it, he would eventually stop. And I certainly didn't want to drag my mother into this fight.
"It doesn't hurt. I don't feel the pain anymore. It will pass soon," I kept repeating inside my head. I will never shed a tear for someone like him.
"Just leave, next time It won't go well for you" he spat.
I never liked him since the first day my mother Introduced him to me.
As my mother heard me climbing the stairs after knowing what my father did, she quietly went out from her room, maybe already waiting for me to come up. She took my hand.
"Sorry, I'm sorry my love, are you alright?"
I blankly looked at her. "Yes, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about that," I replied, rolling my eyes.
She told me to come here.
"I'll put some band-aids on your cheek and your head. You don't want it to get infected, do you?" Her hand, full of scars and reddish from pain, she gently placed it on my face and told me sorry many times.
Every time she sees me she tells me sorry for everything
Shes getting ill as the day passes, it's not strange being with that man 24/7 hours is a nightmare.
I can't understand the meaning of telling someone sorry; it doesn't solve anything.
Are you sorry because you can't divorce him? Are you sorry because you can't stop him from beating me? Are you sorry because of our situation? Are you sorry because you made the wrong choice? Are you sorry because of your greediness?
The first time my mother presented my father to me was when I was eight, two weeks before their wedding. I never liked him. He was always rude and got mad at my mother almost every day. She should have seen that they weren't a good couple; They were a terrible fit.
I pulled my face away from her hand, ending her performance. I didn't need her empty apologies or her clumsy attempt to fix a wound she was too cowardly to prevent.
"I'm going to my room," I said flatly, keeping my eyes fixed on the bandage box on her hand, avoiding her gaze. "I can take care of it myself."
I didn't wait for her reply. I practically ran up the last few steps, locking my bedroom door behind me. The lock was weak, but it was enough to buy me a few precious minutes.
I knelt beside my bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in my head. I reached underneath, searching for the small spot where the floorboard was loose. My fingers found the familiar seam and traced the edge until I could pry it up just enough. I pulled out the small, heavy, wooden box that held the last three years of my life.
I opened the lid. Inside, the money was folded neatly, counted and recounted hundreds of times. Every dollar bill, every five, ten, twenty, was a painful piece of freedom I had bought with my hunger, my exhaustion, and the silent beatings.
I ran my thumb over the stacked bills. It wasn't enough yet, but it was close. Just a little more, I promised myself. Just a little more, and we're gone. We're safe.