(Disclaimer: Mark isn't mine (although, I wish he was) I'm just borrowing him to play with for a little while, he's all Jonathan's. Oh yeah, and if you don't dig violent themes dealing with...errrr...child abuse...click the little x in the upper right corner, cause this stuff kinda goes into it. Yeah yeah, I'm a sick chick, I know, I know....)
I slammed the door too hard.
That was my first mistake of the afternoon. I was in such an excited flurry when I got home from school that I just let the large, heavy wooden door slam behind me when I barged into the house. It wasn't until I heard the heavy footsteps plodding down the wooden stairs that I realized my sinful ways.
"How many times have I told you not to slam that door!?" I heard the deep, booming voice shout at me from the stairwell. I cringed in my spot at the kitchen counter, knowing he couldn't see me, but still knowing I wasn't out of danger's way. I quickly finished off my glass of water and placed it in the sink...quietly. It was best to say nothing in these situations, so I sat at the counter and began doing my homework. The footsteps made their way back upstairs and I exhaled. He was gone.
"Mark, you took my Slinky DIDN'T you?" A small, accusatory voice spat from the living room. My sister Melissa stood poised, her hands on her little 10-year-old hips, her blonde locks in pigtails. I rolled my eyes at her.
"Melissa, what would I want with your Slinky?" I asked, as though it were a stupid question. I was 17. I was a senior in high school. How dare she accuse me of such a thing.
"I don't know, but you took it!" She said fiercely. I glared at her.
"No. I didn't." I shot back. Her tiny face scrunched up. Her little fists clenched.
"Yes you DID!!"
And that was where the trouble began. The pounding started. I glared at Melissa and hissed: "You KNOW Dad sleeps, why did you yell?" We both knew what was coming. And we were both scared to death.
He materialized in the doorway, clad in an Oxford button down and slacks, probably what he came home from work in. His sandy-blonde hair was still neat and tidy. It was his eyes. They were absolutely on fire. The kind of fire that you learn to recognize and fear.
"What the hell are you two brats screaming about!?" He shouted, glaring down hard at my sister. Her lip began to tremble. Suddenly, all the animosity I held toward her for picking a fight with me melted. I just wanted to scoop her up and whisk her away.
"Nothing, daddy..." she whispered shakily. Her little eyes began to fill with tears. She knew what was next.
"You little lying brat, I heard you yelling!" He said. At that time he chose to snatch her by the wrist and drag her to the living room. I couldn't let this happen anymore.
"Get your hands OFF of her!" I protested. That was my second mistake. Objecting. In my household you never asked, you never expected answers, and you never, EVER objected. I knew he wouldn't like it, but I knew it would get him away from her.
His cobalt eyes became fixated on me, his grip on her wrist loosened and she managed to wriggle away and flee to the sanctuary of her room. Her room with the lock on the door. Her room where he couldn't find her.
But he had found me.
I stood my ground. There were many rules for when I found myself in these situations. 1. Never concede. 2. Never let him get someone else when you're at fault. 3. Never turn your back.
"Would you rather I put them on you?" He snarled at me. I was temporarily frozen, surveying my surroundings, checking my options.
"Go back to bed..." I ordered quietly. His silent stare became not so silent anymore. With one quick movement he had seized my shoulder, shoving me back into the wall. My spine hit with a loud thud that I KNEW Melissa and my mother heard upstairs.
"You didn't answer my question, you little bastard. Would you rather I put them on YOU?!" I turned my head away from his. His face was in mine, his hand pressing me to the wall. There was no escape. No way out. Might as well take this one like a man, Cohen...
"Sure." I said calmly. I knew that either way he would take this out on me. Why not go out with some glory?
"You're just full of it today, aren't you?" He said with the flat calm in his voice that I had always recognized as the calm before the storm. This was only the beginning. "You've ALWAYS been nothing but a cocky brat! Just like your sisters!"
"Leave them out of this!"
"Shut up!" He silenced me with a quick backhand across my face that shook my glasses. I stood. Stunned. "You take after them in every way...I won't be surprised if you turn out as some artsy faggot..." I could feel heat rising to my face. My muscles tensed. I was in fight-or-flight mode, and the last thing I was doing was running.
"Fuck you." The words poured from my mouth before I could comprehend the repercussions they would suffer me.
"Fuck me?" He asked, his glare intensifying. "Fuck me!? You'd be NOTHING without me, you insolent little prick!" And he swung. I was screaming in protest before he even hit me. His strong, 46 year old fist made swift and painful contact with my 17 year old stomach. The air I was inhaling when he swung was quickly displaced as I gasped for air. My knees weakned and all I wanted to do was to hit the floor. But he didn't let me. He held me up with one hand and used the other to beat me into oblivion. His right fist made contact with my jaw and I shouted again. Someone upstairs had to hear me. I knew they heard. They were just smart enough not to come down.
"You disobedient little faggot, do you REALIZE how good you have it here!?" He spat. I cringed. "You're so fucking spoiled you don't even see it!"
"Spoiled?" I panted, still recovering from the blow to the stomach. "Yeah, dad I have it great here. With you drunk every day and beating on your wife and kids...I live in fucking EDEN!!!" I screamed at him with all the strength I had left in me.
And then he laid it on me. A harder backhand to the face. Before I could blink, I felt warm blood ooze out of my nose. I brought the hand I was using to block my stomach up to my face to catch it.
Mistake number three. As soon as I left the shot open, he took it. Pounding his fist into my ribs and knocking the wind out of me. I crumbled. My knees hit the hardwood, and the rest of my body followed. I couldn't breathe, protest, move...I couldn't even cry.
"Look at you. Weak. Disgusting." He taunted quietly before storming out the door.
I pulled my knees to my chest as soon as I learned to breathe again. There I was, curled in a ball. I couldn't stop the hot tears from sliding down my cheeks, I couldn't catch the cry that lingered in my throat before it escaped, and before I knew it I was screaming. Lying on my OWN living room floor, crying and screaming because I hated him so much. I hated how he made me feel weak. I hated how he hurt me. I hated everything about him, every item he owned, the clothes he wore, the sound of his voice, the color of his hair. But most of all, I hated that his blood ran through my veins...and out onto the hardwood floor.