Sweet Dreams

Chapter 2: Transition

I perch my gown over my bed frame. I open my drawer and pull over one of Mother's sparkling dresses. It hugs my waist, and dangles at my calves. I feel alive. I put her gardening glove on and it latches to my small left wrist. I have the hands of a beautiful angel when I wear her gloves. They cover the scars Father caused when he held them on the stove top.

I slide into her low purple flats that my black stockings outline. I braid my hair back. I stand in front of the reflecting glass, imagining myself on the other side. Staring at all the scratches, bumps, knots, scars, bruises that accompany my neck and face. I mentally vomit. You're disgusting, just as Father tells you. I turn my head down and look away. Father is waiting in front of my doorway.

"Ready?" He asks. I can sense the hangover. I nod politely. He follows me down the stairwell. I come to the bottom and head to the door. Father locks it as we step out.

Inside, I hide myself. I couldn't possibly will myself into fighting Father. He's my pop. He hasn't always been this way... an abusive alcoholic that is.

Before Mothers passing, he would throw me on his shoulders and tell me to fly. Wave my arms up high. Touch the sky. He would play tag with me, and Mother would make us pink lemonade. The three of us would sit on the old country deck and watch early fireflies soon past, and the break of dawn. Morning wind would take away all the differences and draw us closer. Nostalgia constantly consumes my thoughts.

I used to ask Father about Mother until he drank his memory away. I'm told the basic things I remember myself. Father knows what causes the marks on my body, but doesn't remember making them. He stays silent, completely, when there's some that I know he recalls. I'm just terrified one day he'll forget and ask where they came from.

We pull into the school parking lot and I hurry out the car. Father says something as the passenger door slams. He's calm when he's not drunk, but I want to be away from him.

The bell rings right as I take my seat. Kids stare and snicker. Mother used to tell me to brush it off. She would describe their behavior as "jealousy" because of my height and age in the forth grade. It's worst now that I'm in tenth grade. I never went to actually school for my middle and junior high school years. Mother was the best teacher I've ever had. Since I applied back into an actual school now, I'm fourteen years old, five-eight, in tenth grade. Although I'm in an alternative school, I'm the only kid this young who's a sophomore. Who's jealous of that?

I feel paper hit my head and bounce onto the floor. I grab it.

" Christina The Freak " it titles, and has a stick figure with  distorted hands and face. I absolutely hate being, as the teachers classify, "the gifted child". It makes my ears burst being labeled.

I miss Mother's schooling. I didn't have to worry about name calling, or stupid drawings saying I'm a monster.

I stuff my bulging tears back down my throat and dry swallow. "It'll be alright, love." I imagine Mothers soft whisper behide my closed eyes.

"Christina?" My eyes open, and I force a smile.

"Here."

The room grows dead. My expression fades into the darkest dept the pit in my chest has. Nothingness.

I have learned to add up seconds of my happiness for I know the consequences. Father can inhale it right out of me. I can't keep joy for long.

I know every single answer to the questions Mrs. Pikes puts on the board. I refuse to answer aloud like the other kids. Intelligence already has me on edge.

As the class dismisses, I'm last to exit. Just before I step out, Mrs. Pikes calls me over.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Christina, I have something that I need to address to your Father and yourself about your schooling." A weight drops in my stomach. Am I in trouble? What have I done?

I nod with a pressed smirk, " I will inform him."

The rest of the day is a blur. I was late to third hour, and accidentally fell into a big, taller girl. I was shoved hard against the cafeteria wall. I tripped walking down the main enterance stairs, ripping Mother's fuchsia lace. I cannot do anything right. Ever.

Father's wore down Sedan waits for me across Saint Lane. I observe as students scatter to their vehicles. I would kill for the excitment of going to an existing place called home. My home left when I was nine. She fought for six years, longer than needed, but shorter than I needed her.

"What did you tell them?" He asks.

I look down and nod my head. "Nothing, Father."

He groans while rolling over the engine. I sit still. He probably thinks I'm lying.

Not one word is shared on the way home. He doesn't ask about my day. He hasn't in years. I anticipate Father's asperity when telling him about what Mrs. Pikes said. I don't enjoy exposed fresh scars.

We pull into the long driveway. I look forward to spending this weekend with Grandmother, she brings me hope and happiness. She's Father's mother, Grandma passed a couple months ago; Mother's mom. I miss her very much. She raised a great daughter.

Father is acting unusual, his voice is colder than normal. Threatening. Scarce.

Father locks the car doors as I shut my door. This house doesn't feel like home anymore. Since she's gone.

I head straight to my room, avoiding Father's harsh shenanigans as the liquor smell clogs my nose. It's overpowering.

I sit on my bed, the day going through my head. I remember the face on that sheet of paper. I look nothing like that. How could somebody be so cruel?

Mother would tell me to respect others the way I want to be treated. I took it into consideration, but I can tell other kids haven't been informed. Maybe that would help the torturing.

I change into something more comfortable, something more me. Not Mother.

I only wear her clothing on Fridays. She passed on a Friday in the hospital down Forgeway. Disgust swallows me every time I pass that place.

Loud music vibrates the floor and the bed I lay on. It's comfortable, like a back massage. But then a heavy knock kills my vibe. It's distinctive, Father's signature. I open the door.

It's not Father. Instead, a buff, tall male with sharp features. It's Father's best friend's son. Tristan.

"Are you ready to leave, I'll take you to Grams." His voice is smooth, deep. I love it. He's been apart of this family forever. Since Greg has been Fathers best bud.

A rare smile plays on my face," Yes."