Sleeves

Chapter 9

I cannot move. I should be used to it by now, but every time my father hurts me, the pain feels new and it overwhelms me. I don’t even have the strength to get to my room tonight. I just lay on the hallway floor, unmoving, too weak to do anything but cry. I am certain that if I tried to stand, my legs would only fail me. I see, from my position on the ground, the kitchen clock displaying the time: 2:37. In just a few short hours, he will be awake and ready to deliver more pain. It takes all of my strength, but I grit my teeth and pull myself across the floor into my bedroom. I quietly close the door and lean against it, exhausted by the small amount of exertion.

I wake in the same position several hours later, throbbing from head to toe. My entire face is crusted in blood and I know I should try to stand but I cannot force myself to do it. As I lay, I hear voices down the hall and realize they are the reasons that I woke. I struggle to listen through the door, and I am just able to make out the conversation.

“Is Gracee here?” asks a deep, husky voice.

“Nope,” My father barks. I can tell that he is annoyed that anyone would dare wake him so early, especially when he is nursing a hangover.  

“Well then where is she?” the voice questions.

“She left for school an hour ago. Now get out of my house,” my father growls, knowing full well that I’m in no condition to go anywhere today.

“Oh, well okay then,” the mysterious voice sighs. I hear footsteps and the sound of the door slamming shut, then nothing.

Suddenly my door lurches open, shoving me across the floor. I moan as my stiff limbs react to moving so suddenly. My father stands in the door, annoyance etched into his features.

“You tell that no good son of a bitch that if he ever wakes me up that early again, I’m putting a bullet through his brain, understand? In fact, why don’t you tell all your friends,” he sneers as he says the words, knowing my school situation, “that they can’t come over period because you’re grounded!”

I sigh and simply nod; arguing is absolutely useless, especially with the mood he’s in.

“Oh, and by the way, you look like crap. Go clean yourself up, for God’s sake.” He clomps out of my room, probably crawling straight back into bed.

I seethe silently; as much as I would love to scream and yell, I know it will do me no good. I just bite my tongue and slowly inch my way to the bathroom connected to my room. I grasp the counter and pull myself to a standing position. The sight that greets me is horrific.

Blood is matted into my hair and caked all over my face. On my forehead, there is a large gash with tiny pieces of glass still inside. One look tells me right away: I need stitches. The problem is, the nearest hospital is 5 miles away and I doubt that I will be able to walk there in my condition; I am still aching everywhere.

I bite my lip and close my eyes, trying to come up with some sort of plan. I know that I can’t take my dad’s car, I would not survive the beating that would come along with that. We don’t have a home phone - dad’s too cheap - and I don’t own a cell phone either, so I can’t call an ambulance. I realize that I only have one option.

I gently wash my face and try to clean off the blood as best as I can. When I am finished, my hair is still a muddy brown color but my face is noticeably cleaner. I walk as quickly as my body will allow me to my dresser, and I pull on an old sweater to cover the new colors blossoming on my skin.

I slip on some shoes and ease my door open, pausing to make sure my father doesn’t stir. I quietly walk out the door and begin my journey.