"Don't forget class your poem is due tomorrow,"Mr. Picone said in his usual stiff tone. "Remember I want twenty verses and abab rhyme and another twenty for cdcd. This will count for twenty percent of your grade. I wont accept it no later than 3:15p.m tomorrow."He shuffled his messy pile of papers when the ringing sounding of the bell signaled us to go.
I had to be in honors English, I thought sarcastically to myself as I shoved my beat up binder in my bag and headed for home.
The school was as loud as ever repeating the same thing they've been jabbering about for the last week. The dance. Tomorrow morons will bond together and act like idiots. Lucky for me, it's not mandatory.
I tuned out the pathetic cheering and left the premise. Unlike some kids I wasn't rich and couldn't afford some kind of car to drive me home. Instead, I had my god givin' feet.
So, I walked in the pouring rain to my house which was, of course, at least a mile away. Lucky me. I gripped the strap of my shoulder bag and avoided the sharp wind whisping through me violently. It was late October and already the weather was taking a dramatic turn. It wont be that long til the white flakes will start sprinkling everywhere, and the temperatures will begin plummeting to near negatives. Great.
Blurry to my vision when looking to my left and right I was about to cross the street. Suddenly, a vehicle came from behind with it's bright headlights switched on and quick turned on the street I was about to cross. The car came out of nowhere and was only inches from my body once my quick instincts unfolded and I fell back on the wet sidewalk. The car zoomed by in a flash and all I could specifically make out was the silver coat. A surge of water flew in my direction and landed all over me. At first, I was shivering from the water that seemed to freeze over me. But, then anger built and burned it all away. I got back on my feet and scrutinized the car leaving without any sign of noticing me. Of course. It was silver and an expensive sports car. The one name that popped into my head were the Cullens.
"Assholes,"I muttered as I picked up my soaked bag and stalked down the street without looking for any sign of car approaching.
It wasn't the first time they did that. Not long ago they appeared out of nowhere and did the same thing. Only it was for once a dry day and no river of glacier water poured over me. Stupid Cullens. They think just because they're dad is a doctor they can do whatever they please. Bull. If they think I'm going let them bully me around they've got another thing coming. I don't put up with that crap. And, everybody in school knows that for a fact. I let them off the hook last time, but that's because it was perhaps an accident. But this was no accident. And, there was no doubt in my mind it was going to happen again.
I guess I'll just do what my dad always says. 'If someone gets on your nerves than you get on their's'. That's the only way to get people to back off. Of course, that's not how school wants us to behave. They want to make us all equals and work our problems out in discussions. Well, that's their way, and my way is beating the crap out of someone. Although, I couldn't do that to seven Cullens. Not to mention, the big guy and two creepy looking males. Only three of them were in any my classes. Bella, Alice, and Edmund, I think. Strange names, is all I can really remember.
"Hey Leslie,"greeted Mr. Swan. He was just getting out of his cruiser, shielding his eyes with his hand prompted over his brow.
I walked passed his house waving, "Hi Mr. Swan."He was my next door neighbor and has been since I moved here years ago. He was the towns cop, a dad, and an okay guy. Occasionally, I'd go over and do some chores for him for money. He was a single dad with a daughter off at college, with hardly any time to get things done around the house. And I was a girl with a lot of time who was poor. In the beginning, he didn't approve, but I insisted I needed the money or wouldn't have enough to pay for my college fund. Immediately, he took up my offer.
It was in my instinct to be a hard worker and so I was when doing things like mopping the floors, washing a car, doing dishes, etc. In the summer I cut and edged his yard, but that was maybe once since grass here barely grow thanks to the weather. It didn't take that long for him to see my work and hand me a bunch of twenties. Later, I started cooking for him earned only more. I reminded him of his daughter, he said. Minus the manual labor.
"Hey, the Clearwater's are coming with some friends this Friday. You're welcome to come if you like,"he offered.
"No, but thanks,"I said.
He looked disappointed. "Well tell your dad I said hi."Then, he ran up to his porch dripping water everywhere.
It wasn't until I stepped inside my house that I realized I was drenched from top to bottom in rain. The heater wasn't on and the chilling air from outside crawled itself in. Quickly, I dumped my clothes near the fireplace to dry off, and put on some comfortable clothes.
I finished writing my poems, homework, studies; and was now making dinner. It was exactly eight o'clock when the sound of the doorknob twisted and alerted me of my fathers presence. The grip on my spoon hesitated when hearing him come in.
He didn't say anything until he reached the kitchen. "What's for dinner?"he asked in an unusual gruff voice.
I went back to my boiling pot, stirring."Pasta."
He went to fridge and grabbed a dark bottle. I held my breath when he set in on counter beside me and opened the beer with a lid opener. The second he popped open the lid, the bottle flew to his mouth and he inhaled it breathlessly. I watched him warily-my heart sped with fright-as he finished his drink. When the bottle emptied it dropped and crashed on the tile floor. I jumped back in shock the moment the shards exploded and hit in every direction. Immediately, I went for a broom and dustpan. When I returned, my dad was back in the fridge rummaging through the shelves. My throat closed at the sight, a sign that told me I was scared. My dad wasn't himself. He never got drunk unless he had bad days. And, when he did, bad things happened. A dark memory rose into my mind-as much as I tried to bury it. All the signs aligned together and it only frightened me more.
"Dad,"I said, trying hard to make it simple. "Wait til dinner."A light stutter carried through my tone.
He turned to me, expressionless. Then, he shut the fridge door with two bottles in his hands and went to the living room. No, this was definitely not my dad. Something bad was going to happen.
I bared through my fear and fixed the rest of dinner in hope he wouldn't appear out of nowhere and give me a heart attack. It was quiet and it worried me. The man in there wasn't my dad. He didn't drink like that, and especially not in front of me. He wasn't quiet like that. Usually, I hear him ask dozens of questions about school and so on. It was never this quiet.
Except for one time. . .A time I don't care to remember. I hid away the memory and placed the food in bowls, supplied myself with forks, and took a deep breath in before entering the living-room. Dad had already finished his beer and was now turning off the tv to sit across from me at the table. Hesitantly, I placed his bowl on the table as he approached very near. I went to my spot and tucked something in my napkin secretly.
I figured it was going to be a quiet dinner, but was surprised when he asked, "How was school?"he asked roughly, digging through his food.
My clutch on the small object settled in my lap tightened. "Fine."I dug through my memory searching for something normal and specific to mention. "I passed my on my proficiency test for French." Which was true. I passed with flying colors.
"Good, good,"he mumbled. The beer was starting to take affect from the way he slurred his vowels.
I glanced up at him more than once, hoping everything was going to be okay. I didn't want history to repeat itself. And, if it did. . .
"How was work?"Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!
It may be hard to believe, but my dad's actually con artist and works for some big-shot foreman. He takes orders for him and goes out for whatever needs taken or traded: Drugs, priceless items, etc. Sometimes the job requires long distant travels and can last months. Not to mention, it's extremely dangerous! But, in return he gets a lot of money and maybe even a priceless item or two. I remember him giving me a pearl necklace of ten inches for my thirteenth birthday.
Those business trips especially give me a high level of stress and worry. Where is he going? Will he get caught? Will he come back? Those three questions alone fill me with tears every time he leaves. But, that was his career; and we needed the money. Maybe not desperately, but things like retirement, insurance, and investments. Not for us. . .but for me. He was settling everything I needed for the future. He kept saying he was more than likely not going to be there when I pass twenty or there to give me away at the altar; that it was a miracle that he even made it to my fifteenth birthday.
But tonight something went wrong; I could see it in his expression.
"The cops got Shila. Right now their investigating our quarters."His voice was as dead as his expression. He continued eating his food, but only as an distraction.
Shila was his boss. In Navajo it meant Brother. I wasn't told his real name or if he did have another name. But, that's the name everybody(and I mean everybody)knew him by. He lead the whole business and now he was in prison. How?
"How?"my voice was shaken.
His fists, set on the table, clenched together and his brow wrinkled. It was very hard for him to confess. "Someone told on us. A spy. A traitor."A deep sign of anger sized his tone.
Suddenly, I was very scared of him. My voice was taking away and the palms of my hands began to sweat. "Who?"
I crossing the line when asking that question when I received no answer. It was usually for my own good when he did this. The very thought brightened my premonition knowing he was doing something normal. But, still he had a bad day and was drunk.
Dinner went by terribly smooth and I was now washing the dishes; not that it was mandatory, but someone had to do it. I kept the object safely in my pocket. I hated feeling the urge to have it with me; that it shouldn't be necessary. . .but it was.
Just when I thought I was alone, the object once inside my seat pants slid out. I froze feeling a warm shadow behind me.
"What is this?"The words came out completely wrong. It was hard and built strong with anger.
Shock took away my voice, along with the since to run. I remained silent.
Rough hands took hold my arm and whirled me around. The spine of my back slamming on the edge of the counter, and the pressure in my arm from which my father held me by both ached. He never did this; he never harmed me. I refused to see the fire in his eyes.
"Speak!" The broken note in his voice told me how drunk he really was.
When I didn't his tone lowered and frightened me more. "It was you. You did this!"he accused.
At that moment, he became violent. Before I could protest, he shoved me to the side, where I hit the side of the refrigerator and then the floor. I sucked in air from the severe blows that was now aiming my stomach. "Stop,"I begged. I didn't do anything!
"I knew I could never trust you! You piece of trash!"The painful kicks continued to bruise me. It took my breath away to where I couldn't say anything.
Then, the kicks stopped.
I found myself crumbled on the floor, and my arms shielding my face. What he planning now? What was going to happen now?
And, then I heard and click in a device. I swear my heart skipped a beat from the terrible thought lurking me. "I should've gotten rid of you the night your mother died." Now, I knew I was crying. No one ever mentioned her without me sobbing my eyes out. Smooth moves clicked into place; I only knew what was going to happen now.
No. No, this can't happen.
Before I could make since of my thoughts, I was already taking action. My sore body rose to their feet running toward the man I thought was my father. He was still stuffing bullets into the device I didn't have to see was a gun; giving me time to tug the weapon out his hands.
This was a life or death situation now. I could've ran for my life, but it was more than likely he would track me down(Not to mention, I was already fighting). There was no time, but to act. If I thought I would die preoccupied. Something inside me just told me to fight; to fight for my life, even if it hurt my father.
His force was much stronger than mine. My half of the gun was shorter and slipping away, cutting my minutes of life in half. I had to do something. Quickly, I looked around trying hard to ignore the painful punches hitting my face. The knives lay on the counter. But, in this situation it was too far and I couldn't bring it me to go to that level. I looked harder. Then, there it was; the pepper spray! Because it was only inches from my inches on the floor, I went for it. My hands shakily took the bottle, and without aiming I sprayed the poison at him. I pressed harder on the lid assuring myself it was working and it reached him in the face.
My heart was beating wild with fear. Is it over? My throat stung with pain, not physically, but emotionally. What was going to happen now? My dad tried to rubbing off the painful spray that cover his face, cursing while proceeding. I stepped away suddenly uncomfortable near him, and watching him warily.
Then, a dark thought anguished away all the sores and bruises covering my body. There was no time; I had to leave. I considered calling the police, but I didn't want to take the chance of how long the spray would actually last.
Mr. Swan.
That one name switched my legs forward. I'll go there. He's a cop. He'll help me. I found myself jogging to the closest door near me. The back door.
He'll help me, I kept telling myself. I wanted to believe it, but somehow it wouldn't come through. Just when I was about to reach to knob of the door the horrifying sound of a gun went off. I froze. . .
"Ah,"I mouthed, feeling the fresh, warm tears drop down my burning face. For one tiny second there was only shock. Then, the horrible pain erupted within my left arm. Like a rag doll, I fell on my side. "Ah."I couldn't yell, shout, scream for help. I could only lay there, useless.
But, the gruesome thought of the pepper spray wearing off, or worse, him triggering another shot scared me into moving forward. I had to get next door, or at least outside.
I struggled back on my feet discovering how shaky legs really were. Serious doubt flooded though me, down-siding my plan. But, I had to out of here. Anywhere was better than here.
After much struggle, I made it to the side of the house. I found myself laying on the cold cement shivering uncontrollably. I wanted a blanket, warm weather, but more importantly my dad. The thump in my throat returned agonizing me more along with my stinging eyes.
Everything's changed now. I knew it by heart, but didn't know how to accept it. What was I to do now? Would he come look for me? How much time do I have left? Would this be my last night of life? All these questions ran through my head over and over to where I soon discovered I was tired, and the questions were drifting off.
There was a bench back on the porch. I wanted to lay on it, but denied the sweet desire, wanting nothing more than to be away from here.
Maybe, he'll find me while I'm sleeping. Would he kill me then? If so, I hope he would, hating the thought of having to look into the dangerous eyes that belonged to him. . .