It Is Easier This Way

I wrote this in my creative writing class last year. I hope you guys like it and since my teacher asked I feel it is necessary to say that I do not relate to the main character. Enjoy! :-)

I stumble back from the blow to the stomach I have just been forced to receive. I land on the hard living room floor. Almost letting out a sob because of the rush of pain but I hold it in, knowing it will only make it worse. I see it. The next punch. It is coming right towards my head. In order to dodge the pain I could lean a little to the left or even the right, but it will only aggravate him more. So I take it. It hurts - like a firework exploding in my head - more than the punch my stomach was forced to undergo but this one just makes me dizzy. I kind of just zone out. It is easier this way. When my father gets like this nothing can stop him. I have tried and it only makes it worse. He has been this way since my mother died. Then, I was ten.

I am 16 now.

Before my mother died I would see a bruise on her shoulder or leg sometimes, if she was wearing her summer clothes. She always said she had run into the table or the spice rack hanging on the cabinet door. I used to believe her. Then, all of the sudden she died and my father turned his wrath on me, since his initial victim was no longer able to be manipulated. Albeit, I have learned to just cope with it. It is easier this way.

I am ripped from my thoughts when he decides to yank me up off of the floor by my arm. He has a grotesque smirk on his face. I know what is going to happen next. I can handle being hit, smacked, shoved, slapped and even cut… but not this. This is much worse. He roughly starts ripping off my clothes and shoves me down on the black leather couch. Then he starts taking off his own pants. When he does this, I choose to go somewhere else in my mind. I cannot fight it because I am feel like I have no physical, mental or even emotional strength, therefore, I just lie there. I think that is always his plan, to knock me down and hurt me just so he can hurt me worse without me fighting back. But I never fight back, I never have it in me.

I am always hurting.

According to him, I am his maid. I clean the whole house, all the time. If I don’t he beats me and sometimes hurts me even more. He gets drunk all the time. Although, I want to think it is the alcohol making him this way, I know it is not. It is just his sick and twisted mind that makes this seem okay. He wanted a son. A son that could live how he did, from football, to taking on the family business fresh out of Stanford. In the end I wasn’t what he wanted and I was forced to endure that fact. Every day. I come back to reality when he starts shouting at me.

“WHAT THE H*** DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!? GET UP YOU DIRTY SL*T! GO TO YOUR ROOM!!” He screams at me. You would think our neighbors would hear. But they don’t, no one does. Yet another thing that changed after my mother died. We moved. From our power blue house with a white door and wrap around porch with a little swing, in our cute picket fence subdivision. To a one and a half acre spot of land. Along with what might as well be a mansion on it. Not another house in sight for three miles.

I get up and stumble as I try to put my clothes back on while running up the staircase to the safety of my room. Although my room has bad memories in it too. Just like every other room in this disgusting house. When I get to my room I shut the door, lean against it, sink down and cry. Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t I have been born into a normal family, with a mom and dad that love me? I jump when I hear a big crash coming from down stairs. The sudden jerk in movement makes me wince from where I had been hit. I can feel the bruises arising on my ribs. I get up to go take a shower and I see all the new damage my father has done this time. The ‘bruise’ I felt on my ribs is actually a gash from his ring, more than one. I go to bed after my shower, hoping not to be forced into waking up later in the night.

But like every other night my hoping gets me nowhere.

NNNNN

The next morning I wake up with no recollection of how I fell asleep or how I got to my bed for that matter. This terrifies me and puts me on edge. I start to get ready for school even though I wish I didn’t have to go, but if I don’t my punishment only gets worse. I throw on a black long sleeve t-shirt and dark wash jeans. I have to choose my clothes carefully, to cover all of the injuries he has given me that haven’t gone away yet. After I finished, I try to get out of the house quickly before my father wakes up from his drunken stupor.

I start my walk to school, and on the way I listen to music to drown out the eerie silence. I get to school and make a b-line for my locker. Wanting to look like I am in a hurry so no one tries to talk to me. People worry me. You do not know what people can be capable of. Like my father. I used to think he was the best…

They all remind me of my father, capable of the worst, present like they are the best.

As soon as I get my locker open someone comes up behind me and touches my shoulder. My music is loud so I don’t hear this person come up. I let out a blood curdling scream. I start to shudder from the shock and I can feel myself working up in to a panic attack. I slam my locker shut and run into the nearest bathroom, and start crying. I can barely breathe. This is why I hate school. Everything scares me. My father is always in the back of my mind. What he does to me, everything. Why does my father have to do this to me? Why can I not be normal? I finally calm my breathing and go to third period. I do not even know who tried to talk to me this morning, and that scares me. People do not talk to me. I do not talk to them. I am too scared. They are all like my father. I want to go home but there it is worse. There I have to endure that pain that causes me to be like this. This pathetic scared girl who screams when someone accidentally drops one of their books. The person who cannot stand the touch of another person because all she feels is her father touching her. Scared someone is just going to throw her in a closet and beat her the way her father does. I tired of being this person!!

NNNNN

When I get home, I am scared. This never changes though I always am. Especially when I am home. Sometimes I get lucky and he is not home when I get there. My luck has skipped out on me today. I can hear him banging around in the garage. I take this chance to run up to my room and drop my school bag before he sees me. Then I hurry back downstairs to start doing the dishes.

Not but five minutes after I started doing the dishes, I turn around at the sound of the garage door shutting. I see my father walk in. He is not drunk this time though. I can tell. He is calm and can walk in a straight line. Right towards me. When he is only a foot from me he takes another slow step. Then punches my head sending me to the cold tile floor. As if that was not enough, he kicks me twice, hard in the stomach. Then once again. It sends a sharp pain from stomach all the way to my lower back, like someone just stabbed me. A scream tears from my throat. This only encourages him.

“Did that hurt, you little b****? HUH?! Did that hurt?” He snarls at me. My father goes to kick me for a four time, then stops and rips me up off of the floor with a death grip on my wrist instead. This is when I see the pool of blood on the floor... As he is yanking me outside, I look down and almost faint when I see where it is coming from. The crotch of my jeans are soaked in blood. And I suddenly realize how that could have happened.

My father got me pregnant.

And he just killed it.

Next thing I know, I am being thrown to the grass covered ground. I don’t realize I am crying, until my father slaps me and then starts yelling.

“You are such a f****ing baby! Just like your f***ing mother, always f****ing crying!!” I flinch at the harsh words. They sting even worst when he mentions my mother. The next thing I know, he is on top of me, I try to go to another place in my mind but it does not work. I have all of these thoughts swirling around in my mind. He just killed an innocent child. My innocent child. On top of that he just used my mother as another cuss word, something to mention in vain. I am so sick and tired of living in constant fear!

So this time I try to stop him. Pushing him back, trying to move my legs but it is a feeble attempt. I end up only in more pain from moving and using my energy. Unfortunately, I was reminded why I should not try to fight back. He roughly picks me up and throws me back down on the grass again. I cannot hold back the sob that tears from my throat. It hurts so badly! He uses one hand to rip off our clothes and the other is holding me down by my throat with unnecessary force. Black spots start clouding my vision from the pressure on my throat. Everything starts to disappear. I feel almost weightless and I no longer hurt. I do not even want to stop it. I am suffocating, losing a vast amount of blood and I cannot be happier. It is easier this way.

NNNNN

To Be Continued…