Dante Child Part 3 of 4

Chapter 3
The school bell rings and I hurriedly pack up my things and make my way out of here, I found that if you stay too late one of two things will happen: 1. You mix with the wrong people, get into the wrong crowd, get caught up in drugs and then get trapped in the cycle until eventually you overdose or get killed, or 2. Get robbed, beaten, strangled and spat on. The first few times this happened, I always chose option 2, besides what’s one more bruise. And anyway, my father might see the new cuts and think me repulsive, he doesn’t like anyone else touching his things. He once blew a mans hand off with a sawn off shotgun because he helped me up after I tripped over, I never fell again. Dread fills me at the thought of stepping through my front door, like it does every day. I wonder what it must be like to want to go home, to want to spend time with your family, what a strange feeling that would be. I make my way to the lakes, the place I always go after school, I sit there and pull out my bag of fruit. I always take extra fruit at lunch so I can have it for tea. The dinner lady sees me do it, but she feels sorry for me, they all feel sorry for me I think. I know coming here will bring me another beating tonight, I just hope it’s a beating and nothing more. I take in the lake as I crunch my apple, I am sure the water is full of waste and would probably kill me if I drank it, but its very calming. I’ve always loved water, the sound of it flowing really relaxes me…I think of water a lot at home. I sit and stare for a good few hours, drawing in my textbooks, or finding things to throw in my lake, I know I am late home, that boat sailed about 30 minutes ago. I know what will be waiting for me when I get back, but this time I get out here, to be free makes the repercussions worth it. Or so I thought until I silently stepped into my front door, my father slumped over the newel post, seething with anger fuelled by drugs and whisky. My mother stumbles up behind him, catches her balance and makes her way towards me. She stands a foot in front of me, her eyes almost rolling back into her head she is so high. She shakes her head disapprovingly before spitting in my hair, I can feel it dripping down my head but I don’t wipe it off. I keep thinking as she turns away to fall up the stairs, at least if I let the spit roll off my head and on to the floor, she will have to clean it up. Once my loving mother was out of sight, upstairs collapsed on her bed, my dad tagged in for his turn. He straightens his back and lurches towards me, he didn’t say anything this time, he just gets straight to it. I feared this would happen, I knew I was pushing my boundaries with my behaviour, I knew this was coming, I just wished it wasn’t. I close my mind to it, as my father, my own father rapes me. I contemplate fighting, but I wouldn’t stand a chance, an 8 year old girl against a 30 year old steroid fuelled man. I take my mind to the lake, to the water. Its hard to imagine with all the additional hits he is giving me, but I try my best. I think he wants me to scream in pain, or shout for him to stop, but I don’t give him the pleasure, the water keeps me sane until I don’t have to think about that problem any longer; he hits me so hard I black out…I suppose I should be gratful…


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