Another fic that I wrote several years ago. There is a lot that I would like to change about it but at the same time I want to respect it as a testament to my own development as a writer and person. I hope you enjoy it and will send me a few words to tell me what you think. Cheers!

I remember long hours as a child. Perched on the middle branch of a tree in our front yard, notebooks and textbooks on my lap, watching the children playing in the street. They would run and laugh and scream, though, it wasn't the same screaming I was used to, the kind that brought tears to your cheeks and tremors to your hands. It was the kind that made you want to laugh, made you want to be happy. Made you desperately want to be normal, like them.

The other children would skip and sing and set up hockey nets in the middle of the road. I would watch them until the sun dropped behind the rooftops and parents stood in doorways to call them inside for dinner. I knew that family time would probably follow, crowded around the TV or a board game laughing. Sometimes I would throw a glance at my own front door. A still present but greatly diminished childish hope that maybe someone would poke their head out. Call me in. That someone would think of me for once out of love and care. That, in the long hours I had spent up in the tree since school let out, my world had somehow changed. The door was closed and no one opened it.

The best part about watching the other children was when the new bikes would come out. Red, blue, green, sometimes even gold bikes with shiny spokes and flashy reflectors. They mostly appeared in the days after Christmas or Easter or loud backyard birthday parties to which I would often see kids from my class being dropped off; carrying boxes of all different shapes and sizes wrapped in paper and ribbons. I would sometimes guess what was in them, just for fun. And when 'Happy Birthday' would ring out over the fences I couldn't help but sing along sometimes and imagine the sweet taste of chocolate cake with chocolate icing. The candles warm on the faces of everyone gathered round, a name scrawled across in a favourite colour. Kid's didn't invite to their party other children who would show up without a gift.

After a birthday party you could almost be sure there would be a new bike racing up and down the street.

I remember when Kelsey came over one Sunday while I was reading Moby Dick in my tree. I had sung happy birthday to her during her in class celebration the day before, but only because I knew if I didn't she would make fun of my teeth again. I didn't have any cake though. It was strawberry and I can't stand strawberries. Already I had seen her that morning racing up the street on a new pink bike with the blonde girl, Jessica, who lived next door. Now, she was pushing her old bike towards me. She stopped at the end of the driveway and glanced nervously at my house. I stayed where I was, unsure of her. No one ever spoke to me. It was a rule. So it had surprised me when she yelled across the lawn to me that she got a new bike and didn't need her old one anymore. She told me I could have it if I wanted, since I didn't have one. Placing it down on the curb at the end of my driveway she turned around and ran back to her house where her mom was leaning on the front door frame, arms crossed, observing. Kelsey ran past her and her mother followed her in sliding the door shut. Slowly I climbed down from the tree and wandered across the lawn, my eyes watching the bike the entire time. When I was less than a foot away I stopped. It was plain white, with rust discolouring the bars around the chain and handles. The spokes were dull and one pedal was scratched from carelessly being thrown on the curb; it was the most beautiful bike I had ever seen. It didn't need ribbons or reflectors or hockey cards in the wheels to be perfect.

The plastic handles were warm and hard in my hand as I picked it up and my heart raced as I straddled the seat for the first time. Then I was riding it. I had never even touched a bike before, but it didn't matter because I just knew how to do it. I was made to do it. I could go anywhere on my bike, even if I had nowhere to go and no one to come with me.

I rode to school everyday and then home again. And when I finished my homework I rode all the way to the end of the block, through the park until I was convinced I would never find my way home. I rode away from the fear, the yelling, the smell of alcohol and the taste of blood. I rode my bike until my legs screamed and my lungs burned and the bruises and violence didn't hurt anymore; the tears just dry memories on my cheeks.

It was in late September that I last climbed on my bike, or any bike for the rest of my life. I had just finished eating the peanut butter sandwich I made myself for dinner when dad came home. The door slammed angrily and I knew he was drunk and angry. Mom was on the couch, her eyes open, staring straight ahead and her lips parted. I hid in the doorway as dad pushed her limply over and took a seat beside her. He was tapping on the table with a "Carl's Liquor savings card" and I knew there was going to be trouble that night. There was always trouble when they got down to the last of their white powder.

I stayed where I was in the kitchen trying to be as quiet as I could. "You fucking finished it all," mom moaned sitting up, knocking the glasses and cans off the table. Dad wiped at his nose and lied back on couch closing his eyes. "Why'd you fuckin' finish it all?" Mom moaned again unsteadily climbing to her feet, her upper body hung strangely like she had no bones inside her. She reached out and I winced as her hand connected with the side of dad's face. And then it started.

He was on his feet before her when he smacked her hard into the wall. She started screaming hysterically and he boomed back at her. I closed my eyes and covered my ears with my hands as they raged across the living room, a dance of violence and a song of slurs and sobs and thunder. I wanted out.

I dashed across the room, slamming hard into Dad's legs and I shoved past him as hard as I could. He reached out for me, grabbing the back of my shirt roughly. We both froze in shock when I dragged my nails down his arm. He let me go and I darted out of the house and climbed on my bike peddling harder than I ever had before. I left him behind on the lawn in his bare feet screaming after me illuminated only by the neighbours lights as they slowly began to flick on.

I didn't know then and I still don't know now how far I rode or for how long. By the time I got home though it was dark in every direction. I didn't want to be home but I had stopped kidding myself at the edge of town. I had nowhere else to go and there was no one in the world that wanted me.

I pushed by bike into the backyard and leaned it against the side of the house. Creeping up the back steps I opened the door as quietly as I could, cursing it when it squeaked on its rusty hinges. Sneaking through the kitchen I peeked my head in the living room. Mom was lying on the couch, still staring at the TV. I wondered if she knew her nose was bleeding all over the cushion. Dad was in the armchair laughing along with the studio audience on some late night show. I tiptoed past the doorway and up the stairs avoiding the creaky ones. Stripping off my clothes I folded them neatly on my desk for the next day and put on one of dad's shirts that I used for sleeping. Crawling into bed I closed my eyes and thought about chasing butterflies that were always just a little out of reach.

XXXX

Waking to a strange sound the next morning I climbed out of bed. Pulling on my clothes I went downstairs in bare feet. It sounded like metal scraping metal. It sounded not good. Mom was in the kitchen smoking a cigarette, one side of her face caked with dry blood trailing from her nose. I picked up a rag from the kitchen sink and rinsed it off. Kneeling in front of her I dabbed the blood from her cheek, careful to mind the bruises that had darkened over night. When her face was cleaned off I stood up to move away and she grabbed my wrist.

"Now don't you mind it," she whispered sluggishly around a tongue that seemed too large for her mouth. "You just stay out of it and take it as it comes. We don't need nothin' in this world except ourselves. So just you leave it be." She released my hand and flicked her cigarette into the beer can she was using as an ashtray. I took the burning roll from her when she offered it and put it to my lips. I never inhaled it. Just held the smoke in my mouth then blew it out. Handing the cigarette back I wondered what she meant before it hit me.

I made a dash for the backdoor and threw it open. Daddy was across the yard with a saw in hand and my bike on the picnic table already in three pieces. I knew it was too late to do anything about it but I dashed across the lawn.

"Daddy no!" I cried, hating him even as I begged him. "Please don't."

His voice was low when he spoke to me. "This is what happens when little girls don't listen to their fathers," he ground out, swiping at the sweat that that accumulated at his temples.

"Please," I cried again, grabbing his forearm and he grabbed the closest weapon he could find. I saw it flash in his eyes before I felt it.

Turns out he broke my jaw with the seat support bar. I had to have it wired. Kids at school called my Scary Sara and Metal Mouth and Frankenstein; like they needed another reason to tease me.

"If only they knew how much I liked that bike. "

"What was that Sara?"

I turned to look at my husband. "Huh?"

"I thought you said something," Gil answered, taking his eyes off the end of the street to look at me.

"I said she's really picking it up quickly. She'll be riding with no hands in no time." I looked back at my four-year-old daughter who was showing off on her first two-wheeler. "Gillian, time to go inside," I called.

"But Mom…" I smiled at the whine in her voice and looked at my husband.

"Five more minutes?" I asked him raising my eyebrows.

"You're as bad as she is," He took my hand in his and kissed my fingers.

"Five more minutes?" Gillian asked breaking and peering up at me from beneath her helmet.

"Okay. I'm counting," I told her and watched her pedal away again. "Stay on the sidewalk," I called and she swerved off the road.

"You're too easy," Gil whispered leaving to put our fussing 5 month-old son down for the night.

"Yeah, but she's happy," I whispered as Gillian shouted 'Go' and began a race against one of the other children to the end of the street.