Two: Cigarette burns

Temperance

I used to think I would be okay if I acted like everything was okay. But the truth is, ‭it didn't ‬work‭. I tried it for seven years. Since I was barely ten.‬ It was a few months after my mother's death. I am always blamed for her death as I was in the car with her.

I tiptoe to my house. My shoes skim the sidewalk. I don't want to see what's going on in my own house. Even though I've always known what's going on in there.

I stand in front of the small house. ‭My house. ‬Our family had a large house. One that may belong to a ‭Millionaire‬. We ‭were‬ millionaires. I frown.

‭That ended long ago.‬

Everything was perfect until my mother's death. I got a few thousand. Unfortunately, I can't access it till I turn eighteen, which shouldn't be long as I'm past seventeen at present. Most of the funds went to charities. And another larger share, of course, went to father. He eventually blew all his money doing drugs and alcohol. At that time, we could not afford the bills for the house anymore. This is how we ended up in this small house in a bad neighborhood.

I carefully open the door to my house. The moment I peek in, my heart drops. Of course, he would be here. I was only hoping and wishing, in the back of my mind, that he wouldn't be here. And of course, it will never be the case. People like him just don't disappear.

There he is, my ‭father, ‬in his dirty attire, smoking a cigarette. His twisted expression makes my stomach clench in fear.

His gaze catches mine, forcing me to look away as I walk inside. I barely squeeze myself in through the half-opened door.

I gently closed the door behind me. His intense stare monitors my every move, just like a hunter, hunting for its prey. Silence fills the room.

Was a father-daughter relationship to be this way?

I set my backpack on the floor beside me, trying to be as quiet as I can.

The air is thick with the putrid smell of cigarettes and smoke spiraled around every corner. I can't breathe. Anything unpredictable can happen now.

I watch as he sways back and forth ever so slightly. He seems drunk. He's ‭always ‬either high or drunk.

He exhales a cloud of smoke, brows straightening, and seeks the cigarette in his hand for another drag.

Being ‭high‬ or ‭drunk‬ doesn't make a person violent. People are violent because of what their mind is filled with. They are violent because it's their nature. And violence starts abuse.

Drugs or alcohol don't dictate their behavior. It's who they naturally are. It can't be changed.

He's hated me for a long time. He still does. And he might hate me forever. To him, I'm the reason behind mother's death.

I don't blame him. I feel the same way. I think I'm the reason she is dead. It is my fault. And he has lashed out on me for that very reason. I cannot count how many times.

All of a sudden, a beer bottle zeros into my face. I wasn't fast enough to dodge that and the bottle smashes on my chest.

Glass shards splatter everywhere.

Splintering into my chest.

Going down my shirt.

Some even pricked onto my face and left shallow cuts.

Shards are in my hair, trapped in my loose waves.

Some are spread on the floor all around me. Having a bottle break on you hurts. In comparison to the fake ones that are shown on TV, this one's in reality. A reality where glass shards wedge onto my flesh, cuts and makes them bleed. They also leave scars.

My eyes water. Tears make me feel weak.

Tears show him that I'm hurt and scared.

But no, I don't want to show him that. I refuse to let him win. I'll never allow it.

I try my best to continue holding back the tears. I may have another bruise and several cuts for tomorrow. My body trembles as the silence stretches across the room. A thick lump closes my throat. My eyes burn with tears threatening to fall.

"You're so ungrateful." He grunts, standing up. He is standing right in front of me. I look at the ground avoiding his gaze.

So, am I supposed to say thank you? Thanks for the abuse father, it really puts me in a better life.

Brain puke.

He blows a big cloud of smoke into my face making me choke, my throat itching with the need to cough. In the middle of a cough, his fist collides with my cheekbone, sending me to the ground, landing on my hands and knees.

I stay here in this stance. I watch as his foot comes up. When it goes out of my view, my back lurches forward from the slam of his kick.

"You are nothing but a worthless tramp." He grits out and puts more weight on my back.

I try to hold on. I don't want to stay down.

He keeps pressing down harder and harder.

Eventually my chest gives out from the lack of oxygen. My ribs bore onto my chest as I struggle to heave. Unable to hold on any longer my body crumbles. I lay flat on my stomach. The glass shards wedge deeper into my flesh. I'm helpless in front of his physical prowess. He keeps his foot planted on my back.

I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. So loud it consumes everything else. His foot presses harder on my back. Moving up to my upper back his feet crush my back, my chest against the ground. I gasp desperately. My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen. The Monster's feet remain, torturing me. I see my vision flash from the oxygen deficiency, my mouth widens to inhale air.

I squirm to free myself. ‭Will he lift his foot? Does he want to choke me till I die? Will ‬my suffering come to an end? ‭Various thoughts muddle my senses.‬

Suddenly the weight is lifted from my back. Mouthful of air enters my throat, turning into a coughing fit. I try to sit up with difficulty.

"One day, I'll kill you." He yanks my arm hard, lifting me onto my feet. This is the nicest touch that has transpired between us in a long time albeit full of anger.

"You're hurting me," I whisper under my breath. ‭But would it matter to him? He likes my ‬pain after all.

"Oh, that hurts, huh?!" He mocks in rage. He lifts my sleeve as far up as it would go, ripping it.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and lands on my arm. Instant pain shoots through my skin. I hold back a scream of agony. Tears fall. I can't control them. The burning smell of flesh fills my nose, causing me to feel sick. He takes the cigarette off and looks at my tearful face. His eyes remain unsympathetic.

Tears flow down in a steady stream, my vision clouded. Then he places the cigarette on my skin but this time under my ear.

I whimper and try to pull away. But his hand flies onto the other side of my head, keeping me in place.

"STOP! IT HURTS!" I scream, trying to pry his hand away. He won't budge; he never does. After all, he is much stronger than me.

After a few agonizing seconds, he takes it off of me, leaving me with burns.

He laughs at what he did and turns around. As soon as he leaves my sight, I sprint upstairs into my room. ‭This fate I've been born into is too cruel.‬ I run over to my bed, grabbing a water bottle on the way. I gently pour the water on both of my burns, biting my lip at the pain.

This isn't living. This is just merely surviving.

Certain traumatic situations where everyone has a switch they can flip. It puts them into a survival mode-like state. But it eventually goes back off. Our brains do this to protect us from what is happening. My survival mode is activated all the time. Survival mode is my pitiful life.

I feel my phone vibrate, the ID displayed.

Nicole <3

I sneak into my closet with a comfortable blanket, and close the door behind me. It's pitch black, aside from my phone lighting up from the call.

I hesitate before answering.

I shakily put the phone to my ear.

"Hey," I speak quietly, trying to make my voice seem normal instead of strained.

I rarely answer calls. I am always afraid of him walking in and seeing me on the phone. He would beat the life out of me.

"Hey, Temp. What are you doing?" She asks. I slightly smile at her happy voice.

Although I'm not happy, I know she is.

"Just woke up from a nap." I lie. It seems like I've told a billion lies from living this life.

Lying consumes me. It's my identity. She couldn't know the truth.

"Lazy ass." She jokes. "Anyways, would you come over?"

I take a minute before responding. She should know my answer. I haven't been over in

years.

"I can't," I reply bluntly.

"Why?"

"Dad is sick. So I'm taking care of him." I hate lying to her. I really do. But I have to keep myself safe. And she isn't safe for me.

"Awe, I hope he feels better." She sighs.

"Yeah, me too," I reply in almost a whisper.

She takes a minute to say something after that. I hear things shuffling around in the background.

"Anyways. I have to go. My dog needs a walk. Love you!"

"Love you too," I replied quietly.

The phone call cuts off. I always deny her invites. But even so, she still continues to ask. I don't mind that. But it does get me worried. I know she is getting suspicious.

Either that or she is incredibly dumb.