The neon red of her alarm clock blinked uncertainly to the sound of her father's livid yelling, illuminating the darkened room intermittently. April sat on her bed, staring blankly at the stained floor. Occasionally, her step mother's shrill voice would accompany her father's gruff shout, but rarely. It was a never ending dance of hate, causing April to wonder why they even bothered staying married. The red numbers of the clock shifted to 1:43, once more illuminating the computer parts and lined paper that littered the room. 1:43 in the morning, November 21st. Right now, amid the shouting and the darkness, the date seemed insignificant, but in truth it marked a supposedly memorable day.
Or not so much, she mused bitterly as the tinkling sound of broken glass contributed to the ceaseless noise. A whisper in the back of her mind questioned whether it was anything important, say the last of dinner china? Closing her stormy blue eyes, she sighed. What was the point of worrying? It wouldn't do any good. Opening her eyes, she grabbed her phone, wallet, and jacket. Slinking down the halls and stairs, she kept her head down until well outside the house-better not to gain any unwanted attention. "Happy Birthday to me," the newly seventeen-year-old muttered bitterly once outside the house.
Nike-clad feet hit broken, cracked concrete and in a second she was running. The imperfect streets of New York City flew by, characterized by brownstones and dingy apartments build upon and beside trash littered streets and dark, dirty alleyways. Experience taught her to be aware of her surroundings, but to succumb to the curiosity. Only danger lurked inside the crevices of the city, something she was becoming all too familiar with. A part of her she thought long dead wished to expose the darkness, to drive it out and let only the light in; the impossibility of the sentiment only increased her hatred. She focused on the gravel in from of her, feeling the ghost of bile rising in her throat if she considered her surroundings, imagining the pastel-colored houses and white picket fences that could have been. The rhythmic pushing of her feet against the ground helped to block it out, so she kept running.
Two miles or so down the road she slowed to a stop, now located on the outskirts of the city, somewhere near the docks and a little farther down then the warehouse district. Sweat dripped down her back and her red hair clung to her face as she fought to catch her breath. It hadn't always been like this. Before her parent's divorce, before her father's abuse, before that she had been normal, happy even, but things change don't they?
Slowly, with hands in tattered pockets and head turned down, she resumed walking, memories invading her mind. In front of her, her mother walked away, with only her purse and a suitcase. She didn't look back, she didn't wave, didn't do anything. Just walked away when her father was out of the house. On April's back, she felt the sting of her father's belt on raw flesh. Her arms burned with the heat of cigarette and cigar butts. Her thighs ached with the thought of broken glass and china. The only problem was; she couldn't tell if they were phantom pains or if she was really experiencing them. Then came the flashes of unwanted skin on skin, the burn of rope on her already bleeding wrists, and hoarse cries that broke through the tears. The sensations permeated her thoughts, perverting her emotions.
Hunching in on herself, she paused, the desire to forget came on strong and so she quickly turned left, knowing only one way to fulfill such a want. Left, Right, Right. Her steps quickened, but took on a more confident and sure method than before. Now she was not running, but hunting. Ten minutes and multiple turns later brought her to the front of a seemingly abandoned warehouse in the warehouse district. Without hesitation, she stepped inside, leaving the door to swing wildly in her wake. At 2:30 in the morning the place was relatively empty, with few customers and even fewer suppliers. Cargo crates lined the walls of the dimly lit building, while tables set up every few yards formed a 'U', emulating a flea market.
With determination in her eye and purpose guiding her steps, she walked by the group of men gambling for the pretty girl in the cage. Her frightened eyes followed April, but she couldn't bring herself to care. The girl would be fine. She passed the two women sprawled out at the homemade hookah bar and couldn't bring herself to feel anything but disgust. She approached the back corner of the building, heading to one of the tables hidden amongst the crates. With a silent nod, she passed the bulky man behind the table a stack of bills from her wallet. "What do you want?" He stated, polite enough to hopefully ensure a returning customer. "Vodka," she whispered hoarsely. He nodded and turned to the crates behind him. In a few minutes, he turned back around and the cool glass of a bottle became gripped in her hands, encased by a nondescript paper bag. Without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, she walked out, intent of resuming her aimless wandering.
As she walked, April would occasionally lift the large bottle to her lips, just to feel the burn at the back of her throat. She knew alcohol was a depressant, something she really didn't need, but she also knew it's lethal potential. She was counting on that. Until it took effect, it would serve as a method to reassure she could still feel, and that she had not become numb to the pain.
Stumbling onto one of the many grimy benches that adorned the streets in this part of the city she took another long sip, vodka dribbling out the corner of her mouth and down her chin. Pathetic. When had it come to this? Her mother and father had always hated each other, only marrying because their eldest daughter had been the product of a drunken one-night stand and their youngest an honest mistake. Both of them would have been much happier ignoring each other and continuing on with their research. In her mind, it was only a matter of time before they got divorced. No one would have guessed that her leaving would make her father even more unhappy than he already was. Three marriages and nine years later had proven everyone wrong, with her father hitting rock bottom repeatedly.
Quickly taking another swig, she shifted jerkily. The movement caused her back to ache, a sickening reminder of the slowly healing black and blue stripes on her back- a "present" from her father for not cleaning the kitchen. "Fuck," she breathed out and took another sip. Nine years of not having a mother had taken a toll on her. With nothing to stop her father, she and Robyn became his outlet, his own personal punching bags. At one point, she had thought she had found refuge, then that had turned to shit too. Green eyes and cruel smile flashed sharply through her mind. She dropped the almost empty bottle, shattering it on the concrete. Shards of glass fell like rain, causing the ground to glitter and sparkle; a sharp contrast to reality. Giving no thought to it, she pushed herself up and staggered down the sidewalk.
He would still affect her wouldn't her? She just couldn't run from the damned bastard. She shook her head hard and slowly began running once more. Why wasn't the alcohol kicking in? Without looking, she ran into the road. The squeal of brakes and blinding lights was enough for her sluggish brain to realize what was about to happen. Closing her eyes, she prayed it would be fast. Sadly, the relief never came. Instead of a violent end, the driver quickly swerved barely missing her.