Chapter 2
"Well, I'm sorry but that's just too bad." Hazel's eyes narrowed, searching his face for the reaction she wanted.
"Excuse me?" Mr. Thomas blanched, his voice on the borderline of disappointment.
"You see, I have some matters of importance I must attend to." She continued to lazily pack her bag and exit the choir classroom. She stopped at the door, just before she walked out and said over her shoulder, "see you tomorrow, Mr. Thomas." Then let the door swing shut behind her as he watched her go.
The walk home was a long one but she endured as usual, heels or no heels. By the time she placed her key in the front door and walked in the house she knew it was not going to be a good evening. She dropped her favorite strappy black heels by the front door next to all the other shoes and padded upstairs barefoot. Moments later she heard the tell-tale signs of the asshole banging around in his room down the hall from hers. Hazel shut and locked her door, knowing what was on the way. She slowly counted to ten to keep herself calm, predicting everything he did for every number she thought. One, he throws open his bedroom door. Two, he curses for God-only-knows-what. Three, he stomps down the stairs looking for her since he heard the front door. Four, he kicks her shoes, plus all the others, into the wall out of frustration. Five, he rips open the fridge and grabs another beer. She dropped her bag onto her bed and plopped down, hearing a definite tink! of glass from downstairs, only confirming her exactness. Six, he slams the fridge shut, rattling everything inside and stumbles loudly back up the stairs as she opens her bag. Seven, he marches down the hallway and tries to open her door while she drags out her homework and sits cross-legged. Eight, he bangs on the door a few times. But by the time she got to nine he usually started to ask if she would 'please, open the door,' except oddly enough he said nothing this time. Ten, he banged on the door harder. She sat there silently, frozen in confusion. Her mind battled reasons as to why or why not she should open the door. He hadn't even asked. But before she could decide, he swore and kicked the door. It flew open and punched a hole in the wall where the door knob met.
"Whoa! What the hell?" She glared at him angrily. "That was totally unnecessary. What were yo-" He stepped across the room in one stride and backhanded her. The sound of skin contacting skin at such a speed stunned her into absolute silence. Her cheek throbbed and a single tear slid down her cheek.
"Don't speak to me like that, young lady!" His face was red with either anger or alcohol, she wasn't sure.
"Since when have you cared how I speak?" She snapped, but it only earned her a threatening hand. He flexed as if to smack her again but hesitated. Yep, one of those days again, she thought. They were the worst ones. He was almost always drunk but he usually wasn't this angry-drunk. Typically, he just hit walls when he got pissed. He could normally keep his control when it came to her.
"Since when did you become a whore? Huh? Answer that one!" He cussed at her more, with many unpleasant names.
"Look who's talking! You're the one who brings home a different woman almost every weekend! And I haven't even had a boyfriend in more than a year! You go and blow all your money on beer, barely any on food. The pantry is practically empty! Do you want me to starve to death?" she lashed back at him and added, "some dad you are." She couldn't help herself, even though it infuriated him more when she pushed his buttons like that. It would only serve to get her in a deeper hole, she knew, but she thought that at least if she pissed him off enough, he might actually knock her out. Or leave her alone, however unlikely that seemed.
"Shut your mouth. You little whore." He snarled just before he rushed at her. She shrieked and tried to fight back as he grabbed her mini skirt and ripped it, then grabbed the low v-neck of her shirt and started to stretch it until the hem ripped. She struggled all the while, kicking and trying to dig her nails into his hand to release his grip but it was a waste of energy. He was too strong. He could lift her up and throw her across the room, yet even though she knew this, it didn't stop her from attempting.
When he was satisfied the shirt was no longer wearable, he stopped and stepped back, examining his work. She stood there only clad in her spandex shorts with her shirt falling off of her shoulders and showing her bra. In spite of this, she took no notice but instead started grabbing the nearest heavy or sharp objects to throw at him. He lunged for her before anything was airborne and gripped her wrist so firmly that her hand gave way. She flinched as the object clattered to the floor and painfully hit her foot. She yelped but he showed no pity. He only shoved her chest and watched her fall backwards onto her bed, clanging hear head against the bed frame. He stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind him. She curled up, hugging her knees to her chest with one arm and cradling her head with the other, barely holding back sobs out of sheer will power. When her head had ceased screaming in pain, she got up and got dressed. She threw on her attractively-ripped dark skinny jeans and a fresh white t-shirt that had the Becci's Coffee Shop logo on it. After a moment's consideration, she decided not to trash the skirt or the shirt he had ripped. She figured she could always re-sew the hem and fix the seam.
It was nearing four o' clock and she realized that if she didn't leave soon she would be late to work. Her shift started at four-thirty and it took at least twenty minutes to walk there. As the seconds ticked by she agitatedly contemplated either running down the stairs and darting for the door or taking her chances climbing out the window just to avoid his drunken games. She switched the stuff she needed out of her backpack and into her purse as she reluctantly glanced around her room and noticed the chaotic mess. Her bed sheets were ruffled, her homework that was on her bed had been scattered all around the floor, and, regrettably, there were a few breakables on the floor that must have fallen. Her insides tangled in a knot at the thought of him trashing her room to find her if she chose the window as an escape route. Gotta face that fat fucker one fine day or another, she thought sarcastically. Oh yeah, and I should stop leaving my shoes downstairs. What an annoyingly healthy habit. She examined her cheap old door knob and pleasantly found that it was not broken, he had just kicked it with enough force to pop the lock. She untwisted the little button on the knob, careful not to lock herself out of her room and gently eased the door shut so it made no sound. The house sounded undisturbed. She was uncertain where he was and hoped that he was upstairs so she would have a chance of out running him.
The floor boards of the staircase made barely audible squeaks with each step that she eased down on. She tried to breathe silently and calm her racing pulse to no avail. A sound resonated in the kitchen, which was just off to the left of the foot of the stairs, separated from the living room by a thin wall. She reached the bottom step and noticed a glass dish of pocket change that glistened. Although, it wasn't really the pocket change that had caught her eye. It was the keys, that sat there in plain sight, tempting her to defy the odds. As she glanced from the front door-ten feet directly in front of her-to the keys-two feet to her left on the kitchen's counter-her mind made a split second decision. She bolted to the dish. Upon passing the wall that hid the stairs and living room from the isolated kitchen, she was in plain sight of him. He stood there with the fridge door agape as she snatched the old Impala car keys and dashed for the door. She made it out to the driveway, almost getting hung up on a rose bush, before his brain clicked into gear. He rushed out of the house in blind rage and made it to the car after she had already jumped in the seat and locked the car doors. He beat on the door but it had no effect on the car's ignition.
The car lurched out of the drive in reverse and sped down the neighborhood street. She checked her phone, four-ten, and belatedly thanked fate for having given her a driver's license before her mother died. She noticed then how the plastic grip of the gas pedal painfully dug into the sole of her foot. Damn, well, as they say, you can't win them all.
Sinful Covers