Abuse
Ya know how sometimes, people are called 'white trash', and everyone pictures crack addicted alcoholics, who live off welfare, have a herd of kids, and beat their wives? Yeah, that's my family, minus the crack. We're too poor to afford crack.
And dad doesn't beat mom. He usually goes after me. Kevin's too big to hit, and Karen's too small. Plus, dad doesn't think that I'm his. It's cause my hair's so bloody light, and the other two got brown hair like him.
We're hicks, rednecks, purebred white trash. Whatever you want to call us, we're not first class citizens by any means.
I don't really give a shit though. Sure, we eat waffles for dinner every night cause mom and dad can't stop hittin' the bottle, but it's not a big deal.
I know if I told Ky or someone, they'd buy me lunch. But I'm a McCormick, not a fucking mooch.
I know if I told them that dad gets crazy drunk and beats the face off of me, they'd go all psycho and try to "save me". Especially Kyle. He'd tell his mom, and all hell would break loose. They're a bunch of self righteous assholes, as far as I'm concerned.
Yeah, Ky's my friend and all, but he has a stick up his ass the size of Colorado.
He'll think that just 'cause dad hits me, he's a bad dad. I know he loves us all, and I love him. My old man raised me, took care of me. Sure, we don't have much, but what we do have is fine by us.
I walk into the house, and close the door behind me. It swings right back open when a gust of wind hits against it, and I tilt my head curiously. I squat down and fiddle with the knob – broken, again. I guess dad musta done it while I was 'at class' or somethin', cause it was fine before.
I quickly fetch a brick from outside – one of the many we get thrown at our house, by self righteous fuckasses who think McCormick's have no place in South Park – and use it to hold the door shut. It's not the best thing, but it'll have to do until I scrape up enough money to get it fixed.
What, you really thought my parents would pay for it?
I head to the kitchen, pull open the fridge door. It's empty, besides a six pack of beer. I contemplate snagging one, then decide against it. I actually have to do the homework we got today, or I'll fail grade ten math, again.
I'm in grade twelve, by the way.
"Ken get your ass in here!" Dad hollers from the living room. I pause before entering, listening carefully to the sounds of our house. Mom must be gone, cause the mini TV in her room isn't on. I can't hear Kev snoring, and Karen's not screamin'. Guess it's just me and dad.
Wonderful.
I shuffle out, watching my torn up sneakers as they drag across the carpet. Stan gave me this pair when his mom said they were too old, and that he had to get new ones. They were brand new to me, and I had no problem wearing them, even if they are half a size too big. I don't bother taking them off at the door. Lord knows what's livin' in our carpet. Bed bugs like sensitive areas, it's safer to keep 'em on.
Dad's sittin' on the couch, watching the TV. I don't know why I didn't notice him when I came in. Guess I've been distracted lately. All these thoughts of failing all my classes again. The rate I'm goin', I may as well drop out and get a job workin' at the gas station. No college for me.
I blink a few times and give my dad a crooked smile, "What were you sayin'?"
Dad's eyes narrow, darken. "Boy you better start listenin' when I'm talkin' to you." He grumbles, head swivelling back to the TV. Swivel – See Ky, I do know big words. Kinda.
"Sorry pops." I drawl slowly, rolling my eyes at him now that he can't see me doing it.
"The fuck you thinkin' so hard about Ken? You didn't get a girl knocked up now did ya?"
"Nope." I eye the heap of cans sitting on the floor and cringe internally. He's been drinking. The urge to run almost takes over, but I know that if I do...there'll be hell to pay when I get back. Mom'll get worried about me, and her frantic cries of "where's my baby?" will just urge dad to drink and drink and drink until I'm home again.
Definitely not worth the pain, just to escape one l'il ole beating.
He stands up from the couch, watching me carefully, waiting to see if I'll make a break for it. I don't. I stand still, and lower my head a bit.
They say predators like the thrill of the hunt, but I think dad hates it. He's always nicer when I'm good, and just stay quiet.
He grabs me by the front of my coat, and I feel myself flying. I land on the table with a muffled groan, trying my damndest to keep quiet. "Take your coat off Ken."
I comply, raising myself off the table just enough to be able to unzip it, then slip it off. I toss it onto the side and hunker down against the grimy wood. Years of use rub against my face, and I crinkle my nose as a bug of some sort scuttles past it. I really hope the fucker doesn't try and climb up my nostril, cause that'd just be nasty.
The leather side of dads belt swings by my face and I cringe. He pulls it away, folds it in half, and snaps it. I can't see, but I can hear, and he's done this enough times for me to know just exactly what he's doing.
The first slap of leather against my back causes me to cry out in pain. I'm told to shut up, moments before the second one lands across a sensitive bruise. I make a noise again, and the leather changes to the cold, biting metal of a belt buckle.
The louder I get, the angrier he gets. Metal changes to his fist, changes to silence. I sob quietly into the table, watching as my tears wipe away some of the dirt, making the small puddles almost clean looking.
Nothing's clean about being a McCormick. He walks away, and I get up, dragging my aching body to the bathroom. We don't have any hot water, but I don't mind settling for the cold. It numbs my body, makes me forget the pain.
We're hicks, rednecks, purebred white trash. Whatever you want to call us, we're never going to change.
