Maybe it was stupid of me to think that I could get away with it. That I could pull it all off so easily and never have to look back. In reality it was no harder then acing a test: it just took preparation. It took time. Something I didn't seem to have a whole lot of these days.
The first time he hit me I didn't even feel anything. Or, at least, it wasn't only pain. I felt things all right. Things that are hard to describe. Like when someone dumps hot coffee on you. Because all your emotions are just so jumbled it becomes hard to pull them apart. The first thing that registers is the pain; the burning flesh that makes your skin crawl and your heart hammer and your body flail. That comes first. The second thing that hits you is the shock. Why did he pour coffee on me? Why would he do that? Last is the anger. Sometimes it comes fast, a speeding bullet that practically skips the first two stages. Other times it takes longer; and for a moment you just sit there, dumbstruck, and wonder what happened. But once the anger hits, you'll know. Because at the moment it hits the only thing you'll be feeling it the hatred and the hot red desire to hit somebody.
The same thing happens when someone hits you, only, there are different emotions involved. The pain, the shock, but not the anger. Instead of anger your filled with a chilling fear. A fear of the pain, of the shock. A fear that it will happen again. A fear that all of those stories on the news are true, and that you might just be next.
He hit me for the first time two years ago. I had been 13 and when his fist had hit my high arched cheek bone, it had broken it. The pain had been piercing; a screaming agony I can barley stand to think of, let alone describe. He'd called 911; he'd gotten me an ambulance. But he'd lied. He had told them that a robber has broken in and stolen our computer, punching me in the process. While he buried it in the backyard I was stuck, locked in the closet, unable to call for help. The man had left me there for an entire hour, my body wailing in agony the entire time. That man was my father.
Only three months after that he hit me again, this time in a less noticeable place: my arm. For weeks after that I had a giant purplish black bruise covering the majority of my upper right arm. For weeks I wore sweaters and long sleeved shirts, regardless of the heated summer. My friends would ask me “why are you wearing that Lizzy? It's like one hundred degrees out!” and I'd simply say. “yeah, I guess my weather channel was way off wasn't it? It told me it was gunna rain!” I think they knew I was lying, but they'd let me keep my secrets. Looking back on it I wished they hadn't. I wish they'd pulled up my sleeves and somehow known my dad had done it to me. That they'd have stopped him.
I feel a tear slip down my cheek in a silent protest. He'd be here soon. My plan had failed and any moment he'll be here, where no one would ever hear my cries. He was coming to kill me.
I guess I should run. Run away and never come back. That's what I tried to do yesterday, turns out running didn't work so well.
When I'd gotten home from school I'd packed my backpack full of granola bars and water bottles. I'd dumped out all of my school stuff and packed one unnecessary item: a book; I figured I'd need something to do at some point. I'd found a flashlight too, a real good one. It was compact but it sure gave off a lot of light. I shoved in two thin-but-warm blankets and decided I was ready. I would've liked to bring my ipod but aren't they tracked or something?
Looking at my home, and knowing that I'd never see it again – no matter how things went down – was probably one of the hardest things I've ever done. And I've done some pretty hard things.
A thought of my mother flashes throughout my mind, subtle but definitely there. I was thinking of her more and more often lately. Of what would have been different had she stayed.
My mother left when I was six. Just old enough for me to remember her, but too young for my memories to hold any meaning. All that remains of her is the memory of what she could have done, but what she did instead.
She left me alone with him.
When I think about it I can only guess to her motives. Did she hate me? Did she hate him? Or was it someone else entirely that drove her away? But deep down I know it must've been me, because otherwise there would've been no explanation to why she left me behind. But I can't accept it! I can't just accept the fact that my own mother doesn't love me! So, I don't. I lie. I tell myself that my mother is a loving, compassionate woman and that she'll be back for me someday. That she loved me and wasn't able to take me with for some reason. That she was a victim of circumstances. That she misses me.
I tell myself I don't care what the truth is anymore. What do I care if my mother loves me or not? Not like it'll make a difference, her being gone and all.
I hear a creak as an old metal-hinged door is pulled open and suddenly the once-dark corridor is now flooded with light. I put my hand up to block the light from my eyes, trying to see who's there. But I'm kidding myself; I know who's there.
“Elizabeth! I'm gunna kill you for what you did to my house!” He growls angrily. “I dang well know it was you, I ain't stupid!”
I suppose I forgot to mention the match. The match which I lit the curtains with. The match that produced the fire that I watched devour my house; the only place I had ever called home. I'd hoped he'd burn with it. That the police would have believed me to have burned with it. I'd hoped that my old life would burn with that house.
I stand up and look at him. His ash covered clothes, his scraggly beard. I saw his eyes meet mine and knew that I couldn't run anymore. That I was done running. That I was gonna fight him. That today, for the first time in my life, I was gonna fight back.