It was raining the day my life came to a crashing end.
Three bodies, covered with a black tarp, littered the highway. A crumpled car, no more than a husk, burned slowly in the ditch, collapsing upon itself. There were people screaming on all sides. Blood streaked the road, and rescue workers slipped where they walked.
My family was dead, but I was still breathing. Blood poured from the countless wounds on my
body. Paramedics rushed around me, placing a brace on my neck, and a splint on my bent, broken leg. I
couldn't breathe; the panic was suffocating me.
It was my entire fault. If it weren't for me, my family would still be alive. An oxygen mask was
placed over my mouth and air was forced into my lungs. A fractured rib sent sharp waves of pain up and
down my side. I was getting light headed; I could hear my heart skipping beats.
"Hurry! Get the defibrillator!" I heard from what seemed to be a great distance.
Then, my world went black.
Chapter One
One year later
"Hannah, get your butt down here!"
I feel my blood run cold as I hear my uncle yell up the stairs. "Move it, woman!"
"Coming!" I force myself to get up and open my bedroom door. He's standing at the bottom of the
steps, whiskey in hand, eyes bloodshot. "Yes?" I ask.
"Have ya seen the kitchen lately?" He slurs, "Where's my beer? The fridge's empty."
"They don't let minors buy alcohol, sir." I try to explain. Then again, I have to tell him this every time he gets drunk. And lately it seems like he's smashed all the time. By now I already know what’s coming.
"Oh, really? I bet'cha think yer a smart one, dontcha'?" He beckons me down with his whiskey
bottle. "C'mere and say it again."
I start slowly down the stairs, hand trembling on the railing. "I didn't mean to be smart, sir." I said.
"I was just trying to tell you that I couldn't buy you beer."
His eyes glow with rage as I reach the bottom of the staircase. I back up against the wall and try to
hide my fright, but it's hard. It's coursing through my veins, through my blood, it's happening again. Why?
Why is he doing this to me?
“Please, uncle. Don't-'' I'm cutoff as his fist punches me in the stomach. I can smell the alcohol
on his breath as he pants in my ears. The whiskey bottle lands heavily on my back, shattering into a
thousand pieces. I go crashing to the floor as he continues to beat me senselessly.
Please pass out soon I pray. Though whom I want to pass out, me or him, I don't know; just as
long as the pain stops.
He's been doing this to me since the day he gained custody of me, two months after I left the
hospital, one month after the funeral services for my family. At first I thought he was going to be a really
nice guy. He was kind to me, he bought me everything I needed, and he even enrolled me at the local high
school just three blocks from his house. I only started to become nervous around him when he started to
touch me, or when he told me to call him sir. But that was just the beginning of my troubles.
About a week after I moved in, the beatings started. I had accidentally singed the lasagna we were
going to have for dinner and he flew into a rage. He lashed me with a belt until my back was raw and then
sent me directly to bed with nothing to eat. I didn't go to school the next day because I had bled through all
my shirts.
At first the beating sessions only occurred once every month or so, but then he became so
dependent on alcohol and drugs that it became a daily thing. I had to wear long, dark clothes to cover the
bruises, and all of my peers started to avoid me even more than before. I learned to become invisible. So
invisible, that sometimes even I wasn't sure I was there.
It does get hard to do sometimes, to keep my uncle's abuse secret. But before I begin to blurt it
out, I remind myself of what he said to me the day after he starting hitting me.
"Keep yer mouth shut, girlie, or I'll kill you in the nastiest way."
This scares the hell out of me. I don't want to die, not like that. Not like my family.
I was eight years old when I first became aware of how fragile life really is. My baby sister,
Marie, who was just one year old, developed leukemia and died. Mom always used to call Marie, "her little
angel."
It became true that day.
After Marie died, my twin brother and I became even closer than we were before. We never left
each other's side, and rarely ever quarreled. Sometimes, our parents worried about our lack of sibling
rivalry, but they mostly considered it a blessing.
Nathan and I were very quiet at school. We were not only family; we were best friends. Other
kids were never allowed in our group. A couple of teachers tried to take the challenge onto themselves of
worming their way into our minds, but we ignored them all.
We stayed tight like that until the day Nathan died.
It's been a living hell without my brother to help me through. He would have never allowed my
uncle, (or anyone else for that matter), to treat me in such a degrading way. Beating isn't the only thing that
my uncle does to me.
I remember clearly the day when he started touching me that way, and I can only say that it is
infinitely worse than the beatings. Thank God he's always too drunk to get very far.
I feel another blow to the back of my head and pray that he's almost finished. Blackness is
starting to close in. If he doesn't stop soon, I'm going to pass out.
Finally my uncle stops his attack. I gasp for breath on the floor, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"Now go get me some beer, girl," He points to the door with one grubby finger.
I nod, tears silently pouring down my cheeks. A large lump is starting to form above my left ear.
I'm going to have a killer headache tomorrow.
Glancing at the clock on my way out, I find that it is nearly eleven o'clock already. School is
tomorrow, and I am supposed to be studying for a Trig exam. Oh well.
Stars twinkle at me as I step off the decrepit front porch onto the lawn. I'm not going to the liquor
store; I never do. Instead, I head down the road the road toward the high school.
Once upon a time, Heartbooke High used to be an elementary and middle school. So, right behind
the back entrance, there is a rusty little playground. It is furnished with a jungle gym, some monkey bars,
and gently swaying swings.
This is where I always come whenever I get kicked out of the house. It's always very quiet here,
and no one is around to mock me or hit me or anything like that. My own little oasis in the desert of Hell. A
sanctuary.
I sit down on one of the swings and kick off my shoes. The chains squeak and shed rusty flakes
onto my head, but I don't mind. Slowly I start to pump back and forth, back and forth in a comforting,
steady rhythm. The chirping of crickets surrounds me, soothing my nerves. My tense muscles relax and I
lean back in the swing, a smile tugging at my lips.
I don't plan on going back for at least three hours. By that time my uncle will be passed out on the
couch and will have forgotten all about asking me to go get beer. This has been happening a lot lately;
nearly twice this month. His attacks have been occurring more often and it's only a matter of time before he
kills himself, or me.
Escape is the only way.
Suicide is definitely not an option. I couldn't do it. I'm not brave enough. The authorities wouldn't
help either; I've told them about uncle once already, but they paid me no more attention than a bug under
their shoe. I'm trapped.
Lifting my face to the sky, I attempt to drink in the night. The stars seem to drench me with their
glow; like so many fireflies in a jar.
"Hope is the thing with feathers," I whisper, "That perches in the soul."
My mother was a literature professor before she died, so she would always bring poems home to
Nathan and I to hear. At bedtime she would tuck me in and softly recite a verse or so from our All
Powerful Book of Poems. Most of the time we would read Emily Dickinson, with an occasional T.S. Elliot,
but she quoted that poem verse most often.
I sigh as memories of her gentle face flood my mind. People always used to say that I looked
exactly like her. She had long curly brown hair and brilliant green eyes that sparkled when she smiled.
Her body was tall and elegant. She looked like royalty.
My eyes don't sparkle like hers did. And I don't smile much nowadays.
I'm just plain, old Hannah Lewis, the girl who isn't brave enough to save herself.
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