Two PMs, two relapses. Now, these PMs are irrelevant, but the relapses are why I haven't updated in forever. One of them was for cutting (Yes, I cut, but I've been trying to stop lately), and another was just a depressive relapse with my OCD and Bi-polar issues. Yeah.
Disclaimer: James Patterson owns Maximum Ride
A dream.
It was a dream.
Although I am aware of this, the nape of my neck is burning with a scream of forewarning. My index finger probes the skin with mild curiosity, as well as hesitance, as if the sensation were to vanish in the next touch.
The classroom is empty, but the messy desks and dull blackboard somehow show this is reality.
I blink, steadying myself as an enigma forms in my brain; it is freezing me in an awkward position in which my cheek is pressed against the wood of my desk.
What is my perception of reality?
There are few times where I can truly say I am happy. I have forgotten the first, and the second is fleeting, a flicker of memory I only recall for brief moments.
The latter revolves around a violin, made from several types of wood and pure patience. It is beautiful, the neck a color of dusted charcoal and the scroll mesmerizing.
I cannot play it yet, for it arrives today in a polystyrene shelled case. My father has bought it for me, worked two shifts every day of the month to earn the money for it.
It is my first gift, at nine years old, and it is also my last from my father, but I am so excited to learn to play it that the thought doesn't occur to me.
That is the only moment of happiness I can conjure from my diluted memory, albeit boring and very distant.
I try to remember the violin as I hear the footsteps coming to my room, loud and heavy with calculation. I know who it is, so I must think of a time of enjoyment to occupy myself.
With a croak of agitation, the door to my room opens with reluctance, a man stepping into the light of my room.
His weight is shifted onto his left leg to relieve a few inches of his height, otherwise he would need to bend his head forward. The ceiling of my room is lower than any other room in the house.
"Nicholas," he says, his voice raspy from disuse. He is tired, tired of me in his house and eating the food he provides.
"Father," I acknowledge, bowing my head by a few centimeters to show my respect. I drop my pencil and close my Geometry textbook to give him my full attention.
Without another word, as per usual, he steps forward and strikes my stomach with a brutal force.
I do not do anything but let him take his anger out on my body, causing bruises and cuts to well on my skin. Another punch to the bicep, and another slap to the face. One more of each of these will not change anything, and begging for release will have the opposite of the desired effect, rather injuring my body more than before.
The only noise is the sound of skin hitting skin while my father beats me. I do not move, and I do not say anything. Protests will only make him aware that what he is doing is wrong; shameful, even.
He is gone in the next second, and my senses are so diluted that it is four seconds after he leaves that I notice there isn't a weight on my body anymore, pinning me to the ground.
Things were not always like this. I can still remember when my father loved my mother, when we would pretend that the towering oaks in the park were entrances to secret worlds once one passed behind it, acquiring an entirely different personality when one did so. He would act English, or like the President, and I would laugh at his antics.
Of course, those times are now past tense. Instead of laughing in a park, my father juggles three jobs and seems to only be home to beat me, never to see my mother. Even she is accustomed to it, and whenever he is home, my father reminds me of our hardships. That there is not enough to provide for the three of us.
The bruises on my body are reminders, little details that tell worthless stories. That is all I can think of them.
Today, there is a wound on my cheek, where my father's nails have scraped me. Sluggishly, it drips down my cheek, but I clean it all the same. We have no hydrogen peroxide, no way to clean out any of the wounds. It is dangerous, and that is another satisfaction of hurting me, of ruining me.
The clothes I am wearing are dirty, bits tainted with blood, the rest the grime that covers the floor like a second skin. I sigh as I lift my shirt over my head, a black shirt that has a slash in the shoulder. I will still wear it, but not today.
For an odd reason, I cannot look at my body in the mirror. The protruding ribs are too much to look at, with mangled bruises covering the side of my stomach. My collarbone sticks out awkwardly, and as of now, my hair sticks up in every which way.
Forget being known as handsome, if anything, hideous would be a compliment.
Something catches my eye as I glance at my neck: a single puncture hole, one from a needle. It lies at the nape of my neck, barely noticeable with my fair skin and my long hair. A finger moves to my neck and stops, hovering above the uneven circle of punctured flesh.
I cannot think of this right now. I lower my finger and change.
I hope this isn't much to ask, but please be lenient towards the time it takes me to update this story. I've been having a tough time lately, and it's been hard to get a grasp on writing. Sorry.
-Blake