CHAPTER 1 – NICOLETTE
It's been 3 months now. 3. Whole. Months. I know that in the grand scheme of things, that doesn't sound like a long time, but when your life is a living hell, it seems like forever. Wait, let me go back a bit and explain.
We used to have a pretty good life. I mean, we weren't well off, but we weren't in trouble either. Both my parents were still alive, at least, and they both had jobs. Granted, they weren't fabulous jobs, but it kept a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and food on the table. That is, until mama got a promotion.
Papa was so proud of her that he brought home some extra sugar, flour, and eggs, and we had a cake. A real cake! we usually only have one when it's someone's birthday, so this was a real treat. But then, for some reason, she had to start working longer hours, sometimes all the way through the night. I didn't think it was THAT weird. I usually didn't see her during the day to begin with. I was always running around outside, playing.
Until my birthday, anyway. I turned 15, and my folks thought it was so special they bought me something I've been wanting for a while. Art supplies. The most beautiful colored pencils you've ever seen, brand new charcoals, and a whole pad of paper! I can't even remember the last time I saw a whole pad. Everything was perfect.
Then one day, mama was gone. Not dead, just gone. As in, she up and left us. For a while papa tried to convince me she had gone to help a sick relative. I'm not stupid. I knew she had left us, I just didn't know why. Gossip told me that much. She hadn't even left New York, just gone to another borough. She had left us to be with her boss. Now everything made sense. Her having to work late and...and everything!
At first it wasn't bad. Papa and I got along fine, but he was sad all the time. Then he started drinking.
He started coming home real late at night, fully drunk. I tried to stay out of his way, I took care of myself. To get food on the table, I took odd jobs from the neighbors. I was usually working; I had very little time left for myself. Over time, though, papa's sadness turned into anger. Then the pain truly began.
It was just a normal day, I was making dinner, and as usual I left papa's out for him on the table. Unexpectedly, though, he walked in early, and as usual, he was drunk. I usually try to avoid him when he's like that, but since he was there, I gave him his measly dinner.
For about 2 - 3 minutes he just sat there, silent and still. Then, suddenly, he began to throw a fit. The food I'd worked so hard to afford was splattered everywhere when he toppled the table. I'm not positive what happened next, I think my brain is actually trying to blot it out. The one thing I do remember is his slap. It hit my face straight on and knocked me to the floor.
That's when it started. My own personal living hell. From then on, he took to blaming everything on me. Each time, I would end up in my room, crying. I took to wearing longer clothes to cover the bruises.
The one escape I had was my art.
