Chapter Four
Rosalie
My anxiety has been high all day, and I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder.
I knew the guys would be out for blood the moment they were released from detention, so I didn’t stick around to tell Charlie bye before taking my usual, lone route to the trailer park.
The further I get from the school, the more I can breathe.
But it’s short-lived when I see the beat-up, old Corolla parked in the makeshift driveway.
The back windows are busted out, replaced with trash bags to prevent the wind from tunneling through the cab.
The hood is a crimson red from being replaced, and clashes horribly with the navy tone of the rest of the body.
It sits idle in front of the dilapidated, single-wide, serving as an eyesore for any passerby. Junk parts of old vehicles and trash litter the walkway to the busted front porch. Every step forward has my heart sinking lower until I feel like a shell—numb and hollow to what’s about to happen.
I pray he’s asleep.
I hope he’s in the middle of a bender, out of his mind, and lost to the world.
Anything but sober.
As I brace a hand on the front door’s dented handle, I steady my racing heart. Whatever hell awaits me on the other side is something one can never be prepared for. No matter how many times I undergo this, it’s never the same.
I push the door open, and the overwhelming scent of mothballs and souring liquor assaults me. It makes my insides revolt, and I have to choke down my gag.
“You’re home,” Dad slurs from the kitchen sink. The island is piled high with empty bottles and rotting food containers. The trash can at the end of the cabinets is overflowing, and the lid is nowhere to be found.
He’s only been home for a day…
“I am,” I say quietly before heading towards my room at the end of the hall. I keep my head down, hoping to escape, but as he wrenches me by my arm, my head is left spinning.
“I’m fucking talking to you, Rosalie. Don’t walk away from me.” He spits in my face, the stench of alcohol mixing with his putrid breath.
“Yes, sir.” My lip wobbles, but I hold back my tears as my arm flames where he touches. It’s getting hard to breathe with him this close, but I don’t dare move. Even as my muscles lock up tightly, and my mind screams for me to run, I remain frozen with terror.
Dad curls his lip, his dark black hair that resembles my own flopping into his eyes and sticking to his sweaty temples.
When people drink, their sweat gets this distinct smell that stays in your nose.
It’s embedded into the fiber of my being and serves as another scent I’m conditioned to be repulsed by.
As my stomach churns, I have to swallow down the bile that’s threatening to spew all over my father’s scuffed, brown boots.
Dead eyes, devoid of light and warmth, trail over my face. “You seem fine to me. What was all of that shit the nurse called me about?”
I swallow the emotion in my throat. “N-nothing.”
“N-nothing,” He mocks before releasing me with a push. “Next time you fuck up, don’t have that damn school calling me to fix it.”
I put my head down. “Yes, sir.”
“Go to your room. I don’t want to see you.” He dismisses me as he turns his back on me. He shakes his head in disappointment. “You’re just like your fucking mother.”
His words cut deep, refreshing that bitter wound as it picks away at the flesh.
You look just like her.
Fuck, you even sound like her sometimes.
I’ve never considered myself ugly, but the more I’m reminded of the woman who walked out on me, the more I grow to despise what I see in the mirror.
It’s all conditioning—the constant reminders, the smells that shape my very thought process, and the sickening realization that sometimes I think they’re right.
Because just like my mother, I want to run away.
I want to escape.
It’s a pipe dream, but one I fantasize about often. Starting a new life in a new place where no one knows who I am. I would have a little, clean apartment, maybe a cat to greet me after my long day at the local coffee shop.
Something that’s entirely mine and not tainted by the greedy hands and mouths of those who cut me down every chance they get. It’s a distant goal, but a goal nonetheless.
It’s what keeps me going, because I have to have something to hold onto.
I trudge to my room, careful not to make any sudden movements or noise as I set my backpack down and close my door. Once it’s locked, I rest my forehead on the old wood. I close my eyes and let the darkness drag me under.
This is the only time I allow myself to get swallowed by the festering disease that grows with every passing day. It’s my time to reflect and create a world where none of this suffering exists.
It’s peace, and despair wrapped up tightly into one horrid package.
And it’s entirely mine.