My bangs fall into my eyes as my mother's wail rises another octave. I close my eyes and bite back the tears, feeling the warmth of blood ooze onto my tongue. I release my jaw and continue to shove items into my bag, sucking on the wound until it stops to bleed.
"...you hear me? Don't you ever do that again!"
I can picture my father's face, his upper lip curled in, his brown eyes flashing, his fat caterpillar fingers clenched into fists. I slowly creep to my door and open it a crack, but the noise volume is still enough to deafen me. I shut it back quickly, locking it, before leaning against it.
My Batman backpack is leaning against the wall opposite to me, where I left it, filled with my usual items. Ten years ago as a little five year old, I remember begging my dad to get it, screaming and crying and stamping my foot. I remember how tight he squeezed my arm, how quickly I stopped, the bruises he left. I remember the next day, coming home to find it setting on my four poster bed with a note. Love, Mom.
I still have my fourposter bed. I still have my Batman backpack filled with the things to take on my adventures. I still have an abusive father and multiple bruises.
I guess not much has changed since then.
I grab the bag and sling it over my shoulder. The strap feels tight over my winter jacket, but I ignore it. I slide open the window and hoist my leg up, about to climb out, when the cold wind slaps my face. I snatch my scarf and mittens before finally climbing out.
Whoever designed my house was stupid. I remember telling my mom that once, and she told me my father did. I said oh, but my logic didn't change.
The window in my bedroom led directly to the deck. Someone could easily climb out, descend the wood stairs, and be in the backyard.
Which was exactly what I did, starting ten years ago, when I was just that five year old girl who had fat purple bruises on her arm. Now I was fifteen and not much different. The fat on my stubby legs stretched out when they grew to an unsually long length. My golden ringlets grew into chestnut brown waves. My hazel eyes, the only thing that had the slightest resemblance to my mother, still had stubby lashes. I still hated pink and loved all the wrong things, the things a young boy should love, not a teenage girl. I wore too much eyeliner and not enough concealer. I still have purple bruises.
The worst is that my face still resembles the horrible monster I am forced to call my father. I still loathe myself whenever I look in the mirror. I think of how he found my mother and he took her away from the rest of the world, thinking of what I might become. For a moment I hate myself so much I can feel the tears returning, but I force myself to go on.
Starting ten years ago, when things would get loud and messy, I'd hop out the window with my Batman backpack and run. Sometimes I'd run far, all the way down Northwood Street, past the park with the wings that took me to the moon, past the trees and duplex housing. Some days I would just walk to the end of the street before turning back around and going home.
Today I was going farther. I was going past the motels with the rusted signs and broken neon lights. I was going past the beer store with the overweight men in dirty clothes. I had the three dollars in my pocket I had been saving for an adventure like this. I was going to buy myself dinner on the fast food strip.
I had only gotten to the park when the wind bit through my pants and burned me legs. I pull my hood over my head, clutching it around my chin, prohibiting the wind from scorching my face any more. I look across the street, checking for any traffic -- there never was, but it was an unbreakable habit -- and that's when I notice the sky. It's a depressing shade of grey, like a giant cloud had swallowed the world and we were all floating in a sea of stomach acid pollution.
Naked trees watch as I battle the wind, bowing my head into my chest. I could only see my black Chucks travel down the shoulder of the road, stepping over beer bottle caps pressed into the soil like buttons. I didn't have to look, but I knew of all the litter in the ditches -- the rejects; stained mattresses, broken furniture, year-old newspapers. The road became glassy, surreal. I dabbed at my eyes and realized it was caused from tears I was too numb to feel.
My fingers join in with the burning. I almost wish that it'll snow, that way there's an excuse for it to be this bitter and cold. I peer up through my mascara painted lashes. The road seemed to stretch on like a carnival fun house. I will myself to go on, but my mind disagrees. I ignore it and preoccupy myself with thinking. Enjoy the silence. You know that it's rare.
I pass the first motel. There are five red doors, all with silver doorknobs with diagonal frames around them. The whole thing looks like it's sagging, and any minute it'll collapse. I continue on, passing the second one. The sign says in crooked letters FREE CABLE. I want to laugh, but no sound comes out. I cross the street again, over to the left side, where the sidewalk begins. Finally, I pass the last hotel; a nice one with nine floors and a salt water pool.
With one last cross section, I'm at the beer store. I cut through the empty parking lot and pass the old print shop. There's a sign on the back door that reads SMILE: YOU'RE ON CAMERA. I continue to fight the wind as I see where the restaurants begin. I quickly tell myself the first will have to do; the cold is too much to bare.
When I open the door, my body sings in relief. I enter the empty restaurant and remove my hood. The walls are half green, half white, with tables in an off white color. It is completely empty, but a man cleans the tabletops.
"I'll be with you in a moment," he says over his shoulder, as if he could sense my presence.
I step up to the counter and look at the menu. The man takes this as his cue to stop cleaning and resumes his spot behind the counter.
"What can I get you today?" he asks me.
I look at the man. He looks strong -- older than me but not as tall. There's a tattoo on his arm, a word, but I can't make it out. I stare at the cash register as I order. "Combo number one."
"With fries and a pop?" he verifies.
"Yes, sir," I respond.
He chuckles as he punches it in. "I don't think anyone has called me sir before."
I mentally kick myself. "Sorry, it's...uh, a habit."
"No problem," he answers, removing a cup from the stack. "It's nice. Sounds more official. Anyways, your total is four oh-nine."
"Oh," I mutter, staring at the three dollars in coins like another dollar and nine cents would appear. "I'm short."
"Don't worry about it." He presses a button and the cash register makes a loud beep. Suddenly, the numbers on the screen display two dollars and eighty seven cents.
I finally meet his stare. He smiles, and I smile back. "Thank you."
"No problem," he responds. "Cold out there, huh?"
I chuckle. "Oh yeah."
"Did you walk here from Assumption, or...?" He leaves the question hanging.
I realize he's talking about the private high school a few blocks away. "No. I walked here from home."
"Oh," is what he says as he fills up my cup. I can see he wants to ask another question but doesn't know how to frame it.
"My parents fight a lot," I blurt out. He looks up, so I continue. "I don't like listening to it. Makes me feel sick."
"Ah." He nods and carefully traces the rim of the cup, securing the lid.
I decide that there's no harm in continuing; the cat's already out of the bag. "Ever since I was five, I've snuck out of the house when they start to argue. The funny thing is they never notice I'm gone. It's nice to feel..."
"Free?" he supplies.
I think about it. Free. I like the sound of it. "Yeah."
Suddenly, a van pulls up to the front of the restaurant. I recognize it as my mother's before she finishes rolling down the window. She honks twice, so I hold up my index finger to signal her to wait.
"Looks like you've been caught," the cashier says, and he has a sympathetic look on his face.
My throat dries up. "Yeah."
He slides over a brown bag stained with grease. The aroma coming from it smells fantastic, but I vow to wait. I pick up my cup and bag and proceed towards the door.
I pause, feeling like I've forgotten something. "Thanks. For covering the extra cost, I mean."
He looks up and smiles. "No problem, kiddo."
After a minute, I push open the door. The exhaust fumes lick me as I round the van to the passenger seat. I open the door, slide into the seat, and set my food on my lap.
My mother looks exactly the same; her short hair looks dry, probably from all the blonde hair dye kits. Her eyes have dark purple bags under them and are slightly bloodshot. Her skin is slightly pale, and I can see the red silhouette of a hand where my father -- no doubt -- slapped her.
She looks away from me and pulls out of the parking lot. I expect her to turn left, towards our home, but she turns right. I give her a questioning look, but she remains silent and concentrates on the roads.
"Mom...?" I ask. "Where are we going?"
"For an adventure, sweetheart," she answers.
And it's then that I know she's known all along, and together, we would finally be free.
