The Bittersweet Life of Amy Clark(EDITING)

Chapter One

     Chapter One

    My therapist thought it would be good to write down all my thoughts and feelings. Writing isn’t my thing. Tell that to a middle aged fat man who listens to people spill their guts for a living. If that is what a psychotherapist is then I must be in the wrong profession. Oh wait; I have no profession, not yet anyway.

    I guess I should introduce myself. Do I say, “Dear Diary, my name is Amy?” Okay, my name is Amy Clark. I go to school at Stonington-Morris High School. All day long you are stuck in a room listening to blah, blah, blah when you can be outside or at home, but I don’t know which is worse; home or school.

     Why do I need to see a therapist in the first place? It is a funny story really; out of control teenager shames parents. I suppose you can say my life is like an episode of Jerry Springer. But if I start all the way back to where I was born it would be just painful. The best place to start this is during my senior year. That is where everything came to a head and popped.

     I woke up recharged, but dreaded the first day of school. This year wasn’t going to be any different. I didn’t dress the same way they did. I didn’t bleach my hair, wear fake press-on fingernails and giggle every time a boy walked by. I hopped in the bathtub and stood under the shower head. Thousands of hot beads pelted my skin as I wondered which one was better, school or home. It was difficult to say exactly. At least at school I didn’t have to put up with Jessie. That was a plus. Eight hours of freedom away from him might be the only good thing school was for. It was the only reason I had to drag myself out of bed each morning.

      I twisted the faucet knob over. Though the water slowed to a trickle and stopped, I stood there. I watched it disappear down the drain and wished in a way I could make a similar escape. I cautiously pulled back the shower curtain. If he was lurking nearby I certainly didn’t want him to catch an inch of my naked ass as I stepped out. He had a bad habit about that. He justified it like this: since it was his house he had the right to do anything he wanted, including barging in when someone was taking a shower or bath or sitting on the toilet. His logic made as much sense as cars with glass bodies. Still, either you live by his rules or suffer dire consequences. Sure there was room for rebellion, but not much.

      Seeing the coast was clear, I reached for a towel and quickly covered myself. My eyes focused on the door as I dried off and pulled on my clothes. If I saw the door knob turn or try to turn I would jump back in the tub and pull the curtain across. Even if I locked it, he still had a way of slipping inside. Plus, if I did lock it he would always get so pissed off. Oh well. He had no business seeing me or anyone else who lived in this house naked. It wasn’t even his house to begin with. My Mom was the one paying for everything! The deed was in her name! But this didn’t matter to him. It was still his house.

      I had just got my left shoe on when I heard the floor boards in the hallway creak. My heart leapt and pounded against my ribs. I did not want to be cornered in here. I slipped into the right one and gathered my pajamas and used towel up in my arms. It was a small bundle, but one that still hid my face from view as I emerged into the hallway. Over the pile I saw him in the kitchen. His back was turned. I made a dash then into the living room, took a sharp turn left and pushed open the laundry room door with my foot. I discarded my clothes in a small heap. There were several more but we kept them separate. We never mixed and matched. It was a good thing too since I didn’t know what diseases Jessie had. He had been with so many women, possibly even a few men and there were rumors of animals as well, and the chances of him having something were high.

      I just couldn’t wait to get out of there. Forget breakfast; I didn’t want to have to ask for permission to fix myself anything. I inched back out into the living room. My backpack was lying just to the left on a wooden stool. I tip toed over to it, slipped my arms through the straps and preceded toward the front door. Once I heard movement from the kitchen my slow approach turned into a run and as I sprang from the door I thought I might slip and fall down the steps. They weren’t slippery, but with how fast I flew there was no traction under my feet. I yanked the door shut, nearly dislocating my arm from my shoulder and sprinted down the cement path to the highway. I didn’t feel completely free until I was a block away. Then I expected to see him standing behind me as I looked back.