Bully (In Edit)

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Half an hour later, I stood over the stove, stirring a tin of tuna into a tuna pasta bake I was making for my dad's dinner with one hand, and clutching a huge clump of blood stained tissue to my face with the other hand.

I had never really stopped to think about why my dad hurt me so often. There was never time to stop and think, there was always something I had to be doing for him. If I did gain a rare moment to ponder over it though, I always came to the conclusion.

It was because I killed my mum.

I deserved it.

You have to understand that this was my life - I knew nothing of the Disney-style family, where the father spoils his daughter rotten and dotes on her lovingly, telling her he is proud of her. That just doesn't happen in real life. This was my real life.

I guess I knew somewhere deep deep down that this was completely wrong, and that many people looking at my life would say that I should stand up to him. Call the police, tell the school, ask for help, anything to get away from the situation I found myself in.

But I'd like to see them stand up to my dad in my position. I doubt they'd come out alive. Bearing in mind I got beaten up for not running home from school fast enough.

Readjusting the tissue on my face, I scooped the tuna pasta bake into a dish, sprinkled some cheese on top, and shoved it in the oven, setting the timer for 30 minutes.

Turning to the matter of my own dinner, I walked over to my designated cupboard. This was where I was allowed to put any food that was out of date and keep it for my consumption. Finding two pieces of bread that I could scrape the mould patches off of, and an ancient looking tin of pickled onion, I quickly made a sandwich, before plating it, and rushing up to my room - my only safety in this house.

I say this because my room was the attic, and my dad was too big to fit through the trap door into my space.

I clambered up the ladder, pulling it up behind me, and closing the door. A few minutes were spent sweeping up rat droppings from around my bed, which was constructed of cardboard, some wooden planks and a few threadbare blankets, before I sat down in front of my mum's dressing table.

I had found the dressing table in pieces in a box at the back of the attic, and spent an afternoon when my dad was out reassembling it, using only a photo I had of my mum next to it. It was the only proper furniture I had, and was one of my only direct connections to my mum.

Discarding my blood smeared tissues, I looked closely at my eye in the mirror of the table, which was already starting to bruise, forming a deep purple colour.

It hurt.

A lot.

Removing my attention from my face, I instead slid open one of the table drawers, and removed the box it contained.

This was my mum's memory box, containing every item I had of hers aside from the table. My fingers slid over the familiar objects, causing a smile to rest gently on my lips. I shifted through the various different objects - a ring, several photos and a small heart locket, containing a ringlet of her hair, before selecting my favourite and pulling it out - The photo of my mum and dad before I was around. My mum smiled up at me, looking like she didn't have a care in the world, while my dad looked over at her, his eyes full of warmth and love.

I felt tears welling in my sore eyes at the sight of them.

They both looked like such nice people, such amazing parents, but I would never get to know either of them, not as they were,

because I had killed her.