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Sitting on the couch and looking at the sunflower, I cannot help but think more of my mom. She loved gardening, that is where I get the love for plants and flowers from. We used to have this big oak tree in the backyard that my father put a tire swing on for me. I remember when we used to go out there and play and he would push me on it, and I would giggle in delight and momma would be smiling behind her camera. She loved taking pictures of us, then she would get next to us and extend her arm to take one of all of us. She was short, my father would give her a small kiss and take the camera to take a picture of us. I smile at the good memory, I wish he would have stayed away from drinking, we could have still been happy, and I would not have to be on the run.
My momma always said, "Life has its dark parts but never forget that the next day can bring you happiness, you just have to look for it." I try to live by that, I take a deep breath to try to forget the past that threatens to come through. I am not home; I do not want to have this panic attack in the middle of the sidewalk. I pick up my pace to get home quicker. Once I am there, I will let myself think about the past and get through it.
My brain does not want to stop thinking about the past, the secrets I have had to keep, the friends I have lost because I did not want them to find out how fucked up my life really is. In middle school I had a lot of friends, I spent time together with them, and I was happy. That summer my family planned to go out of town, my mom went to the store to get a few things for us before we hit the road to head out to a cabin we rented. We waited for her to come home but she never came home. My father made calls to see if she was with friends and just got distracted. But that night, two police officers came to the door and told us that she was hit by a drunk driver and did not make it.
That is when everything changed, my father drank his first bottle then, he yelled at me. I knew he was hurting and did not think much of it. But as summer kept going, he became someone I did not even know anymore. I started to have to wear make-up to cover the bruises on my face, I had to wear jeans and jackets to cover the marks on my arms. I learned how to wrap my ribs when he kicked me a few too many times.
I still remember what he told me the first day that the kicks happened, "You caused this, she went to the store because she knows you needed food. She could not even see that you were fat enough and that you did not need food. Don't worry, I'll show you and we can get your weight under control." He sneered at me, "And don't even think about telling anyone, or the consequences will be worse than what I have shown you today."
I remember when I told my best friend about it, she told me I was an attention whore and that she did not even know me anymore. She walked away and started rumors about me. That was the day that I just stopped talking to anyone. I lived in fear of my father, and I lived in hell in school. No one wanted to talk to the attention whore. That night, she told my father what happened and laughed it off like she did not believe me. The beating I got that night was worse than any before, I remember he called the school and told them I had an awful case of the flu and that I would not be in for that week.
I remember how scared I was and knew that as soon as I graduated, and I had my diploma I had to leave. Here I am now, just trying to survive and to make it somewhere he cannot find me and that I can finally be happy. I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head like I used to do when I was little to hide from the monsters under my bed, but the monsters are not under the bed this time. They are in my head, and they are everywhere in the world. Closing my eyes, I try to welcome sleep.173Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRhCB0qM43D
