Never Leave

Chapter 3

I walk out of Kitery and shut and lock the door behind me. I sigh and walk towards my car. I throw my bag into the trunk and turn to get into the car to get the plastic covering I had taken off. I strap the plastic on it and climb back into the driver's seat. 

I sigh to think about going home and dealing with my father's drunken slurs. I pull down the street leading to my house. I pull into the drive way and park my car in front of the garage. I walk towards the front door and take out my keys to unlock it. I'm about 2 centimeters away from the lock when the door swings open so fast that my hair whips around my face and neck. 

I pull the hair away from my face to see my father looming in the door frame. He looks furious. I am used to this I think to myself. I try pushing my way past him and into the front hallway. I get around him so that I'm standing behind him and right at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Where have you been?" He asks lowly and menacingly. 

"Um, I was at work?" I start to back up and feel my heels hit the bottom of the stairs. 

"Oh? And what's this thing you call "work"? Whoring around all night long on the streets?" He matches every step I take with a step of his own so that there isn't any increasing distance no matter how much I back away.

"What? No! I was actually at work! I don't "work the stre-" I cant finish that sentence because I am thrown into the bottom three steps of the stairs. I feel one of my rips crack and I can tell that the others are going to bruise all up my right side. 

"STOP LIEING! I KNOW WHAT YOU WERE REALLY DOING! I HAVE PEOPLE WATCHING OUT THERE! THEY TELL ME THINGS!" He raises his hand again in a sweeping way that makes a slap. I try to back away. Try to climb up the stairs backwards on my hands, but my ribs make this to hard to accomplish.

His hand sweeps down and strikes me across the cheek. I feel the sting automatically and whimper from the pain. I can feel tears running down my cheeks. The salty smell of tears mixing with the sweet smell of whiskey. 

"Next time, You come home when I tell you to come home." He looks at me with disgust. He turns his back and stalks back to the living room. 

I hear a empty bottle hit the ground and smash. The familiar sound of the new bottles plastic binding snap with the twist. I stay on the stairs for about four minutes trying to make my breathing light in order to keep the pressure off my ribs. I slowly stand up wrapping my arm tightly around myself to keep from moving the injured ribs. I squat down to pick up my bag and go up the stairs. 

I throw my bag on my bed and head to the bathroom bringing my pajamas with me. 

I look into the mirror and examine my cheek first. It's already starting to bruise. I reach into the closet and drench a washcloth in cold water and hold it against my cheek. After about a two minutes, I pull the washcloth off of my cheek and set it on the sink. I pull my shirt off, winching at the slight wrong movement. I look down at the bruises and wince. You can see where I landed on each step. The middle one darker than the others. That's the cracked one I guess. I reach back into the closet and grab a thick ACE bandage. I tightly wrap the cloth around my torso and secure it down with some medical tape. 

I change my clothes and take some Tylenol to help with the pain. I brush my teeth and head back to my bedroom. I slip into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. 

He's never hit me before. But it's not really that big of a surprise. I mean, he has been drinking more and more. I also noticed some punch marks in the walls but had paid no attention to it, thinking it was a one time thing. Apparently I was wrong, I have become his own personal punching bag. But one things for sure: I cant tell ANYONE about this.