No longer a part of the novel

I could hear the arguing as soon as I turned into our path. This was the reason that I’d been on the bridge tonight, to get away from this. It was selfish of me really, to up and leave like that every time things turned nasty, but I couldn’t bear it. The guilt of leaving my younger sister, Jess, behind, used to drive me crazy, but I had to let go of that; I couldn’t look after us both.

I escaped to the bridge more than any teenager should ever need to. It was a good thing that I had some place to go, unlike Jess, who’d simply lock herself away in her bedroom with her hands cupped over her ears. One time she’d been playing her music so loud, trying to block out the noise, that Dad went right into her bedroom and smashed her stereo on the floor. Even after he replaced it a couple of days later, she could never bring herself to even turn it on.

The guilt returned now, like it did every time I walked down our path after being on the bridge. There, I had to forget about it all, including Jess, but here she needed me and I had been to weak to be there for her. She had always been my magnet, to this place I call home. My younger sister, and my best friend all rolled into one. With everything else in life, I was there for her, everything except this.

Slowly and quietly I turned my key in the lock, not wanted to alert my parents of my presence. Like every other time before this, I snuck up the stairs and into Jess’ bedroom. Just like I’d thought, she was sat up against the headboard of her bed with her hands cupping her ears. Taking a CD out of its box, I turned on the stereo and put it in, adjusting the volume so that it masked the voices from downstairs, but not so loud that it caused a disturbance.

I cradled her in my arms until she fell asleep, then I tucked her into her sheets and left her, finally peaceful. Out on the landing it was silent; the arguing seemed to have stopped. It should have been the most beautiful sound in the world but instead it made me feel anxious. I was always expecting, always waiting for the next outburst, and without exception it always came.

The living room door opened and I heard my Dad’s thunderous feet as they pounded up the stairs. I froze, lacking the time to make the short run to my bedroom or back into my sisters, stuck directly in between the two. He turned onto the landing and glared at me, his usual sweet and kind eyes, masked once again by the whisky.

I hated this version of him; it was so completely different from the man I loved - my father. He was loving and caring and sweet. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. But this man, this version of him that was created through his lack of willpower to not be consumed by drink, he was a monster. The fact that he hit my mother was only ever a suspicion; I’d never actually seen any evidence to prove it. But it was always the same routine. Dad would drink, they would argue fiercely, and for the following week or so Mum would wear layers of clothes, concealing almost every inch of her body. I don’t think that she believed she had fooled us; she was contended enough that we didn’t ask any questions.

I promised myself that I would never be like her. I wouldn’t let myself fall in love with someone so reckless, someone so easily dominated by drink. More than that, I promised myself to never let a man hit me, not even once; it’s a trap I refused to fall into.

Dad continued to glare at me, refusing to blink. I wasn’t used to being alone with him when he was like this, I had always made a great effort to avoid it. His nostrils flared and I couldn’t fight the urge to make a run for it. My sister’s room was behind me, in the opposite direction to him, yet for reasons I cannot fathom I found myself running to my room, which he stood only a few feet away from.

“What’s so important in there?” He asked, stepping into my path. “Want to lock yourself away from your own father, do you? Hide away from me?” He turned and entered my bedroom, there was a short pause before he began picking up my things and throwing them at the walls.

“I never touched you,” he yelled, opening up my wardrobe and pulling out my clothes. He ripped most of them a part before he threw them down onto the floor.

“Accusing me. Afraid of me,” he said.

“I never said…” I tried. Suddenly, he stopped. He turned and slowly walked up to me, so close that I could feel his breath on my face.

“Your eyes said enough,” he spoke through gritted teeth and his nostrils continued to flare. For a moment his eyes changed and I was sure I had caught a glimpse of my Dad.

As soon as he left the room I turned and closed the door. I turned the lock and held my hand there, leaning my head on the door. It was over now but as soon as I turned around to look at my room, I knew I’d be faced with the clear up of his mess. He’d tainted my room now; I had no place left, except the bridge, where I could escape.

I was tidying some of my things away when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that had some how managed to escape the storm that was my alcoholic Dad. I looked so pathetic and hopeless. I slumped down onto the floor, a sea of ripped clothes, broken glass, books, and shoes surrounding me, and I wept for what would be the last time.

After what felt like forever, I picked myself up off of the floor. Enough was enough; I would not spend another second being miserable. I was the only one who could change things now and that’s exactly what I planned to do. No more moping, no more being miserable and locking myself away from the world. I will pick myself up and I will give fear my middle finger.