The Untold Stories {Wattpad Prize Entry}

That Girl You Pushed Down the Other Day? She's Already Being Abused At Home

The same day you pushed me down, I almost died. What a coincidence. It wasn't you who did the killing though. It was none other than dear old Daddy.

It all started two nights ago. I was making dinner for my two younger twin sisters, Ellen and Jasmine when Dad burst through the doors. He was home early and the smell of alcohol rolled off in waves from him; two things that never went good together. I rushed to greet him because there was no point in adding anger to the mix.

"Hi Daddy," I murmured as I placed a light kiss on his scratchy cheek. He only grunted in response and plopped down in the couch, flipping on the TV to some Spanish soap opera. He didn't even speak Spanish.

"Go get me a beer," He demanded. I obeyed, knowing the consequences would be harsh if I didn't. I opened the fridge and my heart nearly stopped when I saw that there were no beers inside. Dad hated his beers warm, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I hadn't even known there weren't any beers in there.

I grasped the glass bottled of Samuel Adams in my sweaty palm and slowly walked to the living room, as if approaching a lion's den. Dad snatched the beer from me, popped it open, and took a swig. I watched as he transformed when he realized it was warm.

His eyes bulged and face reddened with anger. "What the hell is this?" He exclaimed. I knew it was rhetorical, so I didn't answer. "Why did you give me a warm beer?!"

"T-there weren't any in the fridge," I stuttered, fears making my hands shake at my sides. He quickly rose from the couch and put his face inches from mine.

"And why weren’t there any beers in the fridge?" He growled.

"Because I didn't put any in there," I lied. He was probably the one who hadn't replaced the beers when he got up for a late night drink last night. But, talking back would only make things worse.

"That's right, you good for nothing piece of shit," Quick as lightning, his hand smashed against my check and sent me tumbling to the ground. I let out a small cry of pain and immediately curled up into a ball to protect my ribs and stomach as much as I could as a flurry of kicks and punches rained down upon me.

Kicks to my stomach came one after another; my breath would be knocked from me from one kick and another would follow before I could catch my breath. My ribs acquired new bruises upon my old ones that hadn't even healed yet. Punches attacked my arms and legs, promising soreness the next morning.

He finally grew tired of beating me and gave me one last kick before letting me get up. Mom must have taken Ellen and Jasmine to their rooms. Good.

Better me than them.

There had been better times. Daddy used to be your average dad, gruff at times, but mostly fun and loving. We used to play at the park with Ellen and Jasmine and go on picnics Sunday’s after church. You could say we were quite the Brady Brunch. Life was good and nobody hid in their rooms in fear or depression.

Then, we lost it all. Daddy’s stocks fell and the company he was working for laid him off, so with such little income coming in, we moved to a smaller house. As you can imagine, he became angry and bitter and that anger had to be taken out on someone.

And that someone was me.

He would come home, drunk and disorientated, and then every little thing would make him blow his top and go on a rampage. It started with Mother, then when she was drugged out to even notice him hitting her, he moved onto someone more responsive—me.

Since then, I’ve done my best to protect my sisters from his wrath and make it through, one day at a time.

Just as I predicted, the next morning my body ached from the beating and it actually hurt to breath. I dragged myself out of bed anyway, dressed in jeans and a hoodie even though it was eighty degrees out, and used concealer on the dark purple bruise on my cheek. I make it through the first three periods of school. Fourth period was gym; I had to get dressed in the bathroom so as not to raise suspicion if someone saw my bruises.

We were playing volleyball that day, usually one of my favorite sports, but I couldn't attend today. I stayed in the back so as not to draw attention to myself and not have to play.

Halfway into the game, the ball came flying towards me and I panicked, knowing that it would hurt like hell if I passed it back. You saw me standing there, spacing out, and took things into your hands.

"Outta my way, loser," You being the competitive bitch that you are, pushed me out of the way to pass the ball. I fell hard on my side. I gasped as pain shot through me.

The coach saw me struggling to get up and stopped the game. She gave me a pass to the nurse who allowed me to skip the rest of my classes to rest. At least something good came out of my injuries.

I walked home that day, as I always do since Dad said if I wanted a car, I'd have to pay for it myself. Ellen and Jasmine were already home and greeted me with toothy smiles when I walked through the door. Mom was nowhere to be found; she was probably in her room, knocked out on pills. Her depression usually hit her hard (no pun intended) after my beatings.

The evening began almost exactly last yesterday's. I was making dinner for Ellen and Jasmine, Dad came home early, drunk and itching for a fight. He demanded a beer again, but something in me snapped.

"You got two legs; get your own damn beer. Walking ten feet and back won't kill you," I retorted. I instantly regretted the words as soon as they slipped from my tongue. His head snapped towards me where I stood in the opening of the kitchen, leaning on the frame.

"What did you just say?" He asked his voice low and dangerous.

"N-nothing," I sputtered, taking a tentative step back. He rose from the couch and slowly approached me.

"I heard what you said, bitch!" He roared in my face. I flinched and prepared myself for the blow someplace on my body that was sure to come.

It started with a slap again, harder than any slap he's ever given me in the past four years he's been beating me. It brought me to my knees and I didn't feel the pain of it for a couple of seconds. He grabbed me by my hair and dragged me into the living room, flinging me onto the couch.

"I'm going to teach you not to talk back to me," He said. He disappeared into his room for a few seconds. I swear to God, if he lays a finger on Mom, I will be going to prison for murder tonight.

Thankfully, he returns shortly, but is wielding a black leather, sinister looking whip from back when I used to go to horse riding lessons.

"On the wall," He snarled. I followed his instructions and lay my body flat against the wall. At this point, not only my hands were shaking, my entire body was trembling with fear.

Nothing could've prepared me for the explosion of pain across my back when the whip made contact. I let out a cry and almost fell to my knees again when I heard him say, "Every time you fall, I'm adding ten more lashes,"

I clung to the wall for dear life as the whip sliced through the fabric of my shirt and then the first layer of my skin. At some point--I don't know when, I had lost track of how many lashes he had given me-- Mom walked in; stainless steel frying pan high above her head, preparing for attack.

"You will not beat on my child any longer!" She proclaimed and proceeded to beat him with the pan. It was almost comical, the way she was attacking him. It was like something from a cartoon. I would've laughed had this not been such a dire situation.

The last thing I remember before passing out is the scene of my mother standing over the unmoving figure of my father, chest heaving and pan raised in triumph.

I woke up in s hospital hours later, sore and bandaged with all sorts of tubes and wires sticking out of me. My back ached with pain even though they had laid me on my stomach. It took months to heal, but the scars would always be there.

I’m not blaming what happened on you of course. What I'm trying to say is, You probably thought I was being melodramatic for going to the nurse for being pushed down. You didn't know that I had bruises and scars from the beating the night before, You didn't know that i had been putting up with this crap since I was twelve years old.

You didn't know me.

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