I minimized that screen for later, and opened up Safari. I checked my favorite fan fiction, one about Killjoys. Nothing. I sighed, stood up, and walked into the bathroom, to my place by the sink. I stood over the sink, arms bracing myself against the bowl, eyes staring into each other. I glanced at the rest of my face: dark, smudged mascara and eyeliner from crying last night, deep red lipstick, dark eye shadow, and pearly white skin hidden behind long black hair and short, choppy bangs. I sighed, and reached over behind the sink, where my trusty heavy-duty razor lay. I scanned it over, checking for rust, corrosion, or blood spots from yesterday. The razor looked like new, as if I has bought it yesterday. In all actuality, this razor was five years old, and still as sharp as a new knife. I cringed at the thought of the knife, remembering the time I had nearly sliced my fingers off on my left hand and my mom stood by, laughing in her drunk rage. I forgot what I had done, but I had not forgotten the punishment.
I looked at the razor in my right hand, and pulled up the sleeve to my oversized black hoodie, revealing hundreds of thin, dark scars. I scanned the red scars tenderly, making sure I wasn’t getting infected or a blood blister. Everything looked to be going well, and I closed my eyes as I slid the razor over my wrist, slowly and surely.
I opened my eyes and studied my face in the mirror, arm over sink. I had begun to cry, but I didn’t know why. I never felt any pain when cutting myself anymore. I just felt relief as the blood spilled over my wrist and into the sink, staining it red. I remembered the taunt today that had set me off the edge, ready to just kill myself. “Go die. Here’s a rope,” Hope Wallic had said to me, handing me a three foot rope. Stupid Hope. Didn’t she know you needed at least five feet of rope to hang yourself?
I looked down at my arm, where ten new cuts had sprung up. I sighed, and washed the razor off, plopping in into a container of peroxide and water. I picked up the container with my right arm, my left still bleeding, and placed the container in a box I had hidden behind some towels. I knew nobody would look for it, but I still had enough common sense to hide it from my parents. I didn’t need to give them more ammunition to hurt me.
I looked out the small window in our two story and almost smiled as the dark fell upon the house. I love winter, I thought, as I wrapped up my cuts with gauze and put that in more gauze. I pulled down my hoodie sleeve, making sure my gauze was hidden, and stepped outside into the night.
New York wasn’t exactly the safest place in the world at night, but it was a lot safer than being at home when my parents lived there, whether staying inside or drinking down at the bar. I walked to a little bench my street had, and pulled out my sketchbook, sketching my feelings out. Most of the time my drawings turned out to be a monster or my parents, angry with bottles in their hands, but lately my drawings have shifted to one scene I had stuck in my head: an empty world. Buildings lined the streets and cars were parked, but the road was deserted. I always drew one person, though. I drew myself. I knew I was already alone in the world, destined for a life of prostitution, so I felt the need to add myself to the deserted city, part of its loneliness.
I checked my watch once I had finished my drawing: 1:04. I needed to get home, to at least get some sleep before my parents yelled at my senselessly. I sighed, putting my sketchbook under my arm, and shoved my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. I walked across the street quietly, not wanting to disturb the neighborhood that despised my family and I so much. I felt eyes on me as I walked, even though it was pitch black and I was wearing black. I finally got to my house and stepped inside.
“Where the hell have you been?!” my mother asked me angrily, raising her arm towards the door. “It’s 1 am, Lobar! Tell me where the fuck you’ve been!”
I blinked at her, knowing Mother would never hurt me physically. “I---“
“I don’t wanna hear any of your shit!” my mother screamed at me, and I put my head down for the sake of not having to smell the alcohol on her breath. “You fucking look at me when I’m talking to you!” she screamed, and jerked my head up to look her in the eyes, her fiery ones boring into my calm ones. “You don’t deserve this home your father and I give you. You don’t deserve the food your father and I give you. You don---“
“Stop, Merona,” my father said, looking as sober than ever. I knew better than to fall for that façade again. Last time I did, I ended up locked in my room for a week with no food or bathroom. “I’ll chat with her,” and Father looked at Mother, anger growing in his eyes. Father turned towards me. “You don’t deserve your life,” my father said, voice filled with venom as he looked me up and down, disgust clear on his face. “You wear black all the fucking time, you listen to shitty fuck that sounds like somebody’s raping your ears, and you wear all that shit on your face you call makeup!” My father’s voice had grown louder as he began to yell at me. “You don’t deserve life!”
Normally this comment didn’t sting, but tonight tears were began to swell beneath my eyes, making my drunk, angry father turn blurry. The way my father had said it tonight hurt.
My father saw me crying ans sneered. “Aw, Lobar got the frowns? Let me fix that for you…” My father took a step towards me, and that’s when I got so scared that I almost shit my pants. I began to breathe heavily as my father’s fist connected with my jaw.
I stumbled backwards, holding my jaw and looking at my father with scared eyes filled hallway with hatred and the other half depression. My parents never dared hurt me before, and here my father was, coming at me with another raised fist. “You… You hit me---“ I was able to get out before my father’s fist connected with my stomach, knocking the breath and words right out of me, causing me to throw up on my father shoes.
My father grabbed my hair, yanking me up to his eye level, which was four inches taller than I was in heels. “Now look at what you’ve done, you fucking ungrateful bitch!” My father took his other hand that wasn’t holding me up and punched me in the face again. Blood was coming out of my nose as I opened my eyes too look at my father as he let go of my hair and dropped me on the ground. I shut my eyes as I hit the floor, shaking with tears. My father looked away, then kicked me with all his might in my legs. I screamed in pain, thinking there was nothing worse in the world than this. My father kicked me again and again, each time hitting the same spot on my legs and making me cry out in pain, begging him to stop.
My father walked off after the twelfth blow to my legs, and I continued to silently cry, laying in a crumpled heap on the hardwood floor. My nose was still bleeding, but I dare not touch it until my father had turned on the tv and my mother had sauntered into the tv room with my father, probably hoping to get some sex before they passed out on the couch. I blinked in disgust with my parents, and began to slowly stand up, trying not to make a sound. The floor creaked in protest beneath my weight, and I stopped moving, rigid in fear. My parents didn’t hear me, though, and I began to stand up again.
I finally stood up all the way and turned towards the door. I put my hand on the knob, blinking away tears as I quickly opened the door and ran out of the house, down the road and to the bus stop half a mile away. It took forever in the cold, but I finally made it to the bus stop and hopped on the bus, paying the driver 35 cents and picking a seat in the back. Only two other people were on the bus with me, and I sighed softly, glad that I was getting away from my drunken parents. I patted my hoodie pocket, freaking out when I didn’t feel my iPod, but exhaled in relief when I felt my iPod in my back pocket.
The bus driver took the bus over the state lines to New Jersey, into a town called Hoboken. Here the bus stopped, and the two other people on the bus walked off, so I figured I should get off too. I looked at my surroundings as the bus pulled away. Old, worn buildings lined the street, and the lights were off in most buildings. I shook my head and walked to my left, where a gas station was. I walked through the lighted gas station to a pile of maps in the corner on a small desk. I opened one that was marked “New Jersey!” and leafed through the map, looking for a Hoboken. I found it, and discovered Hoboken was a small town, about the size of my thumb on the map. I looked around Hoboken, not wanting to stay here, and I found the perfect town to run to: Belleville, New Jersey. It looked a little bit bigger than Hoboken, but the roads seemed more compact than in Hoboken. I closed the map, bought a bottle of water from the lady at the cash register, and walked towards the bus stop.
A cab began to come towards me, and I raised my hand to hail the cab. I hopped in and said, “Belleville,” handing the driver a $50. He took the money and drove off, towards where I hoped a better life would be.
The cab ride was twenty minutes, and when I did finally arrive in Belleville, I felt my hopes dampen a little as I looked around. Three stores were open, and down the road were houses, hotels, and two gas stations. I thanked the cab driver and began to walk towards the lights, hoping a hotel would still be open.
As I walked down the road, I felt eyes on the back of my head. I turned around, but nobody was there. I shook my head, turning forwards, and began to walk faster to the glimmer of hope I called a Hotel Inn. I heard footsteps behind me, and I turned around again, searching the dark for somebody that may be there. My breath caught in my throat as I realized I wasn’t alone. I took a sharp left, into a gas station where I hoped they had bathrooms.
I looked around the place, looking frantically for the bathroom, just to hide and inspect my legs, and I felt a hand creep towards me. I found the bathroom and ran to it, locking the door behind me and leaning against it. I began to hyperventilate, grateful for this haven I had right now. I stoop up rather shakily, and walked over to the mirror on the wall.
My reflected looked scared and beaten. I gasped. That wasn’t me in the reflection. I shut my eyes. When I reopened them, it was still a beaten me. My face looked red and a little swollen, and my nose was still bloody. No wonder I had gotten a weird look from the lady at the last gas station. I pulled down my pants, shivering at the cold air in the bathroom, and gasped at my black and blue legs. I was lucky I could even walk. I shivered from the way my father had beaten me, and pulled up my pants. I lifted my top to examine my stomach, and it had a huge red mark in the shape of a lump. I sighed and put my shirt down, thinking of the nearest hotel from the gas station. I didn’t want to risk getting raped, though.
I settled on sleeping in the bathroom, leaned against the door and legs propped on the toilet. I fell asleep thinking of the world I would come out to when I woke up and walked outside the bathroom. It would be Saturday, and there would be kids everywhere. I shivered again, and shut my eyes, drifting into a dreamless slumber.