Another day of abuse

The rattle of the garage door opening at 5:00 p.m Monday though Friday makes my throat clench dry out of fear and resentment. My body's sudden instinct to start shaking is a cue to prepare myself for the horror that I'm about to encounter the moment the front door opens. I began to force the tears back which made my throat burn even more. I always hated the anticipation of having to guess as to what beating I would receive next, or trying to puzzle together why I was getting the bloody, bruising beatings in the first place. The yellow tinted light flickered on in the hallway and I focused on the ray piercing through the under crack of my bedroom door as if the light was trying to break in.

From The footsteps stomping down the hall I was able to tell the emotion my dad was feeling that day. The harder and louder the footsteps the more enraged he was. And as the footsteps turned more into an aggressive march I knew the emotion he felt today was outraged, and unfortunately that would be taken out on me. As they got louder and louder the harder it was to breath and after every grasp of breath I began to wheeze and develop anxiety.

My room was very hallow and empty. I had no bed, no furniture, or clothing. Scrambling around crawling on my bruised knees in the dark, trying to find a hiding spot my attention was drawn to the walls. They were pasty popcorn white which didn't provide comfort and I noticed multiple dents holes, and blood splats on the wall from when my dad got upset. It all frightened me. Nothing in this room made me feel comfertable, nothing about living under this roof made me feel comfortable. I then hear the door knob screaming to be opened by how great my dad's force was upon the handle. He kept ragingly twisting the knob left and right, left and right. The noise was so loud for a second I felt the door was going to come down all at once.

My eyes were pierced to the door. The lock beginning to fail while my dad busted through the half broken door after several tries with the knob. Standing there less than 10 feet in front of me, staring at me with a grin the size of the Cheshire cats grin from Alice and Wonderland was the devil himself, who escaped from Hell. His feet were spread in a fighting stance. He had a black leather belt tightly, and angrily gripped in his right hand, with a company brand on it that I couldn't quite make out the name of with all the blood over it. I could tell by the emotion in his face that he had been drinking, and I tried convincing myself that because of that purpose he didn't know what he was about to do, or that is was wrong. But then i concluded, there's nothing okay about abusing a child.

As he inched closer he started swinging the belt into a circular motion as if we were about to play a game of double dutch. He held an expression on his face that almost made me sick. But the sight of it wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was knowing what was about to happen wasn't love, the worst part about it wasn't the pain. It was knowing that my family didn't love me enough to realize you don't cause fear and pain to the ones you love. I began asking myself, "Does it make it okay for them to do it"? The belt didn't hurt me when it sliced my right cheek open. It didn't hurt when my dad brutally punched me in the nose. It didn't hurt when I was thrown against a wall and violently beaten from head to toe. Being strangled didn't hurt either. I just go numb.

I was immune to everything that had been occurring. It felt as if I was a rag doll being thrown around taking beating every day that I know I didn't deserve, not being able to prevent it, not being able to stop it. I often wonder what it was liked to be loved, or to love for that matter. The life that I could have makes me a hateful person because I think, why me? Why can't I have the life, the life that I can sleep at night without worrying about what beating would be tomorrow. I looked at the pasty white walls again as I'm noticing a little glow in the dark star sticker stuck to the ceiling. It glowed a bright green, and surprisingly distracted me from the hits and punches. That star was something that my father couldn't take away from me, it gave me hope.

I slightly looked away for a moment when I felt my body finally give up, I gave up. I Collapse to the floor gasping for air more than I did before he came into my bedroom. My head crashes down onto the floor and I watch him slowly walk away, blood dripping off his knuckles. Leaving me lying on the floor as he walks out of my bedroom and says "until tomorrow" , flicks the light off, and slams my door shut.