CHAPTER 8
TRENT
12 years old
The electricity flickers on and off in the kitchen, the bright light dimming and brightening so fast it’s starting to give me a headache. Or maybe it’s the math lesson I’m working on right now. Either way, both things are a pain in my ass I wish I didn’t have to deal with.
Mom’s passed out on the couch, the bright red cherry of her cigarette burning a little too close to the couch for comfort. Oh well, not my problem if she burns the trailer house down. It wouldn’t be the first time her bad decisions have ruined my life, and it won’t be the last.
Mom’s husband, my latest stepdad, walks in. His large, imposing frame takes up the entire entryway. He attempts to drop his keys into the fancy bowl I picked up from Goodwill to make our house look more like a home, but instead of landing in the glass bowl they fall to the floor, the resounding cling echoing off the walls.
I brace myself, knowing what’s coming. In the six months my mom has been with Don, it’s been the same ritual. If he’s in a good mood, he leaves me the fuck alone. But if one thing sets him off, he’ll detonate and destroy the whole house.
His glare travels from my mother to me, and I act without thinking. I stand up, and walk from the small kitchen to stand in front of her body on the couch. I don’t know why after all these years I’m still trying to protect her. She never protects me, the only thing she cares about is getting drunk or high. But still, my childlike mind remembers the time when she wasn’t high on Christmas, and she worked at a small gas station and saved up enough money to buy a Christmas tree. There weren’t any presents under it, but I pretended that there were. Sitting beside it and pretending to open gifts for hours, oohing and ahhing at every single make believe one.
Don snaps me out of my memory, with a back hand slap to my face. Pain explodes in my jaw and I bite my tongue, the fresh taste of copper flooding my mouth.
“Get out of my way,” he snarls, the stench of stale beer washing over my face and causing nausea to churn in my belly. His pupils are dilated, the blackness overtaking his usual blue eyes. He’s high as a kite, and he’s been drinking. The fresh track marks on his arms catch my attention, but quickly I take my focus off them. Last time he caught me staring he threatened to shoot me up with whatever he had. I doubt he would, because he always bitches about how much it costs, but I guess at a certain point addicts just don't care anymore.
“I won’t let you hurt her,” my voice cracks, wavering under his deadly gaze. I’m trembling, but I ball up my fists and refuse to back down. I can’t take him in a fight, but maybe he’ll go down quicker with all the shit he has in his system.
He laughs, the sound harsh. The hair on the nape of my neck stands up and I prepare myself for his onslaught. His fists can cut me down, but his words bury themselves deep inside. No matter how many times I tell myself that what he says doesn’t matter, every time I prove myself wrong. My self worth is connected to these two people in front of me, and I hate it.
“She’s just a junkie, she doesn’t give a shit about you.” He’s ninety nine percent right, but I hold on to the one percent of my hope. Even if my mom is, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. No one deserves to be treated like this.
I don’t respond, choosing instead to stare at him. To prove to him I’m not scared of him.
“You’re just like her.” It’s not a compliment. “She’s just as useless as you, the only thing she’s good for is spreading her legs.”
“Shut up,” I demand, rage growing in my body as my hands shake by my sides. Tension is rolling off me in waves.
“You won’t be worth anything either. You’ll be spreading your legs for dope, just like her.” He shoves me, the full weight of his body pushing against my upper body. He’s 6' 1 and 250 pounds, I have no chance of getting the upper hand at my 5' 8 and barely 130 dripping wet.
“And when you drop out of school for being stupid, just like her, you won’t be coming back to my house. You could be homeless for all I give a shit.” He pushes me again, harder this time, and I fall, jerking my body so I don’t land on top of my mom.
Don doesn’t care though. He shoves the coffee table out of the way, beer bottles falling to the floor and papers scattering from the unpaid bills. He gets on top of me, pinning me to the stained carpet. His fists rain down on me, every crack against my skin causing a new bolt of pain to shoot through my body.
I keep my bottom lip tucked in tight between my teeth, not willing to make a peep and let him see how much pain he’s actually causing me.
When I’m worried I’ll pass out, he finally gets off me, swaying slightly as he stands up and uses the table to help him push to his full height.
“Get this shit cleaned up, and I don’t want to see your ugly face for the rest of the night.” He jerks my mom up by her wrist, and she flails for a minute until she realizes where she’s at.
“Don, you’re home early.” Her voice is slurred and I have to look away as he drags her to their bedroom.
“Shut the fuck up,” he bites out and slams the door shut behind them.
I grab my books and notepad off the table, and leave the house before they start. The last light outside is coming from the streetlight two houses down from me. The weather outside is biting cold, cutting through the thin fabric of my long sleeve shirt.
I sit on the curb, staring at the material in the book and feeling rivulets of blood trail down my face from the assault.
No one sees though, everyone is tucked away in their own homes and dealing with their own problems.
I let the first tear fall free, mixing with the dark red of my blood as it falls from my face and onto the piece of paper in front of me.
As the liquid spreads, covering more of the page with evidence of my own shortcomings, I make a wish.
I wish that someone would love me, for me. With every fucked up thought inside my head, I want someone that will quiet my thoughts and love me in spite of it all.