My whole life I didn't belong.
In Elementary school I was the most picked on kid. Not that eat-boogers-messy-hair-smells-bad-and-pretends-to-be-a-dump-truck-at-recess kid. No, even he got more respect that me. I was the odd one out. I was the only one in the school with red hair.
No, not red. Orange is more like it. Not even like a natural color orange. It was like solar flare orange. Add that to a gangly figure and a daily kool-aid stained mouth, and I was just begging to be picked on.
Even the boys beat me up.
Once, out of generosity I suppose, a boy decided to tell me a hilarious joke.
"Hey, Rusty!"
I remember cringing at my nickname, but still turning to face him, eyes down.
"Hey, know what they serve at parties?"
"….n-no.." I had said. Of course I didn't know, are you kidding! I didn't even know what a party really consisted of. I was so withdrawn from the world. How was I supposed to know what they served at parties!?
"They serve Fruit PUNCH!" he exclaimed loudly as he decked me right in my left eye.
I fell backwards onto my butt as a small crowd of other nine years olds jeered and laughed and pointed at pathetic me.
This was my daily routine. All because I was different than all other kids at school.
If only they could see me now.
I suppose it didn't really help my situation back then that I was an extreme introvert.
See, home life wasn't much better. Actually, getting punched in the face by some boy at school was a picnic compared to what I usually got at home. Dad was an alcoholic, and worked at some office for most of the day. The only time I really saw him was the few hours between the time he was off work and the time I was sent to bed. And even that was too much for me.
The worst part was when I'd get the belt for no good reason. At least, no good reason that I could remember. He'd walk by my room, double back, whip open the door, and scream at me.
"What the hell do you think your doing!?" I could always smell the booze on his breath, even from a few meters away.
"I…I-I'm…" really I was just playing with my ponies. But in his drunken stupor I'm sure it must've seemed I was doing much worse things.
"Not in this house you don't!" He'd grab me, pull down my pants, and let me have it with his thick leather belt. I still have scarring from where the welts actually bled.
Mom wasn't much better. By the time I was five I had learned how to dress myself and make my own breakfast. I was never really sure what Mom did for a job, except she would always leave at night and come back early in the morning, smelling like Dad's breath and something like smoke. And her uniform was always the same; short black skirt and tiny tube top with these boots that had six inch heels on them. It always amazed me that she could even walk in them. I knew the place she worked was called "Fishnets", but I had a feeling that Mom wasn't fishing all night.
Most of the time I'd be taking care of Mom, making her food and running her a bath when she ordered me to. Her job must have been pretty hard on her, she always seemed so sore after her shifts.
Mom and Dad never talked to each other. Mostly because when one was home, the other was at work. And they never spoke to me. They only snapped and yelled things like "clean up this floor!", or "get to your room!" Their personal favorite always seemed to be "You are as useless as your sister was!"
My sister was older than me by 2 years. She was beautiful in my eyes. Her long blonde hair (I was miraculously the only one in the family to have red heir, lucky me) was always so perfectly done up, and her makeup was like that of a Geisha. She always had this porcelain look to her, like if you touched her with too much force she'd shatter. But this did not spare her from Dad's wrath if he felt the need to release it.
When she turned sixteen she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The last three months of her life when by so fast. It was the only time in my life I remember Dad not drinking. After Kaylee died, he went into a depression and the drugs, alcohol, and beatings came more swiftly and severely than ever.
I thought I was the only one who cried over her death. Mom didn't come home for a week. Dad buried himself in paperwork and booze when he was home.
That's right about when Mom left Dad. She just called and told him. She left me with him too. They fought for so long on the phone. Then, after he hung up, He turned into an even scarier person that he had already been. He was maniacal and sever with his beatings. He was a monster.
I took Dad's beatings in silence, then would turtle up in my room, playing with Barbie's and imagining a better life for myself. But I always did so quietly, just in case Dad decided that I was playing too loudly.
My life was miserable, but looking back I wouldn't change it if I could. See, going through the physical and mental torture every day prepared me in a way for what my future held. It made me stronger, able to tolerate pain, and also, gave me a much darker attribute.
I eventually learned to use my fear. I learned to fight back.
