Chapter 4
2 years later…
A figure sat hunched over in a chair furiously beating on the keys of a well-used typewriter. The constant tap, tap sounded like music as it kept a rhythm. A ding, as the line was finished. The swoosh as it was pushed back into place, and then the tap, tap rhythm started up again. It suddenly broke; no it began again, but then subsided once more. Christian sat pondering the wording of a sentence. Should he use a comma, or just simply put and. It was driving him nuts. He must have typed, and retyped this same page a couple dozen times easily. Another tap, then an exasperated sigh, as he leaned back on the chair. Irritated from losing his train of thought, he slammed his fist hard against the table next to the typewriter. He quickly stood up, causing the chair to scrape harshly against the wood floor. He began to pace the room, his over shirt flapping against his arms as he stormed back and forth, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Even as he paced back and forth, he knew deep down that using a comma or an and didn't really matter. He had known that the first time he had gone to retype the same page.
"Ughhh! Christian, just make up your mind!" He shouted at himself. He stopped pacing and stood still, his frame silhouetted against the light that was spilling out from the open balcony door. He brought his hand to his mouth and began to angrily chew on his nail. Flinging his hand back down again to his side, a little harder than he meant to, he clenched his jaw and steeped out onto the balcony. Seating himself in the crook of one of the neon letters, now turned off for it wasn't dark enough to show up, he brought his knee up to his chest and rested his chin on it. He knew that the only reason that day after day he pondered over this sentence, or that word, was because he didn't want to grasp the fact that he was done, done with his story, the Moulin Rouge. He sat guilty, knowing that he was being silly. There was nothing left to, but yet he still couldn't bring himself to declare it finished. He knew why though, he had known this from the first day he had sat down to write it. What was he to do when he finished it? What meaning was there left in his life? He had paid his debt off to Satine, and not easily either. There had been so many nights when he had cried himself to sleep in frustration. It had to be perfect; it had to be no less, for Satine was no less. This story had become a part of his heart, his sole, his life, his very being. Now it was completed, it was done. He felt that it was like letting a part of himself go as he finally admitted this to himself. For the last 2 years, the Moulin Rouge had been his life, and now it was no more. He had no reason to wake up in the morning, no reason to resist drinks so he could stay sober and write, no reason to work odd jobs at god offal hours just so he could live, live to write. None of that seemed important now. What was he to do? He thought of Satine, but the pain that used to accompany this vision no longer consumed him. By writing the story he had finally been able to let go, not of her, for he could never do that, but let go of the depression and sorrow that had accompanied this thought. He was now able to remember the things that had made him smile, the things that had made his body go mad with anticipation as she had hinted to events that would take place that night, the things that had made his heart ach with the love that he had, and still had for her. He could now remember, and be happy he had ever gotten to experience true love, for there had never been a love truer than theirs. He smiled to himself thinking of his memories. Even though writing the Moulin Rouge had caused him as much trouble and suffering that it had, he couldn't have been more relieved that he was finally able to write it. He sat reminiscing about the day that had changed his life, the day that had slammed him back into reality. He sighed as traced the scar on the palm of his hand that he had had ever since he had picked up the boiling soup. What had he been thinking? He was grateful for what Toulouse had done, and that he had stopped him before he had killed Toulouse. One couldn't have asked for a better friend than Toulouse had been. It had been hard, and he had almost relapsed him back into a state of depression, the day he had passed on about a year ago. The room above never hummed with the same excitement, the same warmth, and the same energy after Toulouse had died. He had been there for Christian, he had risked everything for him, and this alone had made Christian force himself to keep writing, to keep living. What would all of Toulouse time and energy have been spent for if he had just thrown it all away and had lapsed back into his old self? He did sorely miss him though; none of the other Boho's could ever be as great to just sit and talk to, none of them could ever match Toulouse. But they knew this, and none of them had tried. Christian and the Boho's had simply tried the best they could to preserve his memory in their thoughts, for a replacement of him was simply deemed by all as impossible. They had taken his artwork and showed it to people. Toulouse had become a local legend now, and Christian was sure his reputation would only grow more and more. It was just a shame that many would never get to met the real man behind the pictures.
He rose once again for his bum had grown numb from the hard metal on which he had been sitting. He walked back into the room, wobbling his ass trying to get the feeling back. Glad, that no one was there to watch him, for he was certain he looked like a complete idiot. He began to walk normal again as the tingling subsided. He sat on the edge of his bed, 'much softer,' he thought, and looked around his room. There where piles of paper everywhere, and on the left wall there was a huge storyboard he had made with white chalk. It snaked, covering the entire wall, and even lapsed on to the floor, ceiling and other walls as his mind had flourished with ideas that his hand was itching to put down. To anyone else, the paper strewn floor, tables, chairs, and the walls filled with hardly legible writing would give one the impression of complete and utter chaos, but to Christian, it made perfect sense. He lay back with a flop onto his bed. The sun would be setting soon, Christian thought happily as a small grin caressed his lips. He loved to sit and watch the sun set, for it was the end of day, and the beginning of night, the one time when he could truly be content. For in sleep, thought was not constant, it was Christian's escape from reality especially after he had quite drinking. It was a time when he could dream, rest, and hope without the nagging voice in his head constantly reminding him of the truths he didn't want to hear.
-------
Someone, across the straight in England, was thinking the exact opposite thing. Night meant father. Father meant terror.
Shallow breath issued in and out, in and out. Darkness was everywhere, Gabriella couldn't even see her hand in the tight cupboard that she had some how managed to cram herself into. She shifted trying to get more comfortable, some sort of can, probably soup, was jabbing into her lower spin. Not to mention what must have been a pot that her hamstring was firmly getting indented from. If mother were still alive she wouldn't have to hide every night before father came home. Oh how Gabby missed her mom. She felt her heart grow heavy with the guilt and pain that accompanied thoughts of her mother. She had killed her mom; she was a murder. Furiously she banged her head against the back of the cupboard, making her head swoon with a splitting headache. But that was nothing like the feeling that resided in the pit of her stomach, in her very sole.
It had been eight years since the night that had changed her life forever, the night she had killed her mother. She felt hot tears of anger and sadness trickle down her cheeks. It had been a stormy night, as the heavens had let forth an unknown furry and pelted England with hail, rain, and howling winds. They had run clean out of coco, Gabby's favorite stormy weather drink. She used to curl up in the big green chair with her father and her mother, all under a big blanket with her squashed in the middle. Each would hold a steaming mug of coco and watch the storm bellow outside, thinking that life could never get any better; they were the perfect family living the perfect life.
"Mother?" Gabby's nine year old voice rang out high and sweet. "Mum, where out of coco, and you know I can't sleep with out my coco before bed when there's a storm." She had pleaded sticking out her lower lip and batting her beautiful sparkling green eyes, so filled with warmth and youth.
"Oh cut out that puppy dog face, you!" Her mother had laughed fondly at her only child. Cupping Gabby's little chin in her silky hand she said, "Well, how can I resist that face? Really Gab, you know how to get to your old mum! I need a couple of things at the store anyway, and the storms let up a little, so I suppose this is as good of a time as any to go." Gabby's face lit up excitedly as the started walking over to the hall closet.
"Thanks mum, thanks a lot!" Gabby had squealed excitedly at her mother's consent.
"Not a problem, come along my little chickadee, we've got to dress warm!"
They opened the closet door, Gabby hopping around excitedly like a little rabbit. He mother giggled warmly watching Gabby with a twinkle in her eye.
Gabby realized that she was now crying hard, her sobs filling the little cupboard in sorrow. Gabby missed her mother more than anything, her sent, her soft tough, her loving comments, and the warmth that seemed to fill ever room that her presence graced. Gabby sighed and leaned her head back against the wall.
They steeped outside, as the cold air seemed to find ways to penetrate their coats and bring the chill right to Gabby's skin making goose bumps spring all over her small trembling body. They began to walk the half-mile into town slowly for the wind was fierce. Luckily the rain had stopped, so they were still dry. Gabby's body had begun to shake as the furious cold wrapped its icy claws all around the little girl. She looked up to her mother, and her mother looked at her. The heat that spilled forth from her mother's reassuring smile seemed to warm Gabby to the core of her bones. Her mum gently squeezed her hand in comfort and loving. Gabby squeezed back happier than she ever thought she could have been. Soon they reached the lonely little town of Cadburrow, and made their way to the largest store in the whole place, the general store. It was painted a beautiful pale blue, or at least Gabby had thought it was pretty when she had seen it in the light, with the sun shining on its glossy paint. The general store seemed to dwarf all the other town buildings, even if the post was almost as big, but it was a dirty brown, an unpleasant eyesore. They walked to the door and pulled it open, the bell tinkling in the process. As it swung shut behind them, the cold completely shut out, Gabby could feel wood burning stove, crackling softly, in the back of the store. The heat filled the small store, and it was not long before Gabby and her mother were taking off their winter clothes, and carrying their jacket, hat, and gloves in their arms. They took an empty wood basket, and made their way toward the second to last isle that housed the oh so delightful chocolate bars. Her mother would crush them up when the got home, and put them in a pot to melt over the fire. Then, with warm milk cooking on the stove, she would pore the melted chocolate into a cup, and then add the milk. It was wonderful to see her mother mix the delightful substance with a spoon and watch, intrigued, as the colors swirled and then blended together, in a perfect harmony that made her cup fill with a steaming light brown froth. When she would drink, it would run down her little throat, so thick she almost couldn't swallow. Her mother would always laugh at her for it was the only time she ever saw Gabby with a mustache like fathers. Caught a midst a daydream once again, her mother chuckled and had to ask the question again.
"Do you suppose we should get three this time, this storm might hold out longer than we suspect." He mother inquired of her daughter. Gabby was all for getting as many bars as the two of them could carry, but she knew father's income couldn't allow that. However, they usually only got one, and two was rare, so getting three was a real treat. Grin plastered on her face as wide as a dinner plate, she eagerly replied,
"Yes, definitely, we should never go without hot coco again." He mother smiled at her and placed three of the Heresy's bars into the basket. Seizing Gabby's hand, she began to make her way down the isle, but midway, swinging Gabby like an acrobat in a circus, she spun on the heal of her shoe and retraced he steps, muttering to herself about needing some more flour. Gabby watched her mother as she stood looking at the contents on the shelf trying to find just what she was looking for. With a flicker of triumph in her eyes, Gabby's mother let out a slight squeak of satisfaction and pounced on the last remaining bag of flour. With a loud thump, she plopped into the basket Gabby was holding. Not anticipating the weight, the basket dropped as Gabby's whole body bent in strain against the weight. However, her small muscles could not overcome the element of surprise that had allowed the flour bag to win this battle. The basket hit the floor with a thump, and a cloud of white flour bellowed out from the bag that now lay ripped, half of it hanging out form the basket, which lay on its side. A constant flow issued form the bag, like the sand that runs in a time turner, onto the ever-growing pile of flour that accumulated onto the previously spotless floor. Gabby slowly raised her head that had hung staring at the atrocity she had just caused. When her eyes met her mother's, they were wide with shock. They looked straight into Gabby, and then, without warning, her mum began to laugh. Her laughter rang so sweetly and so fully that many a head turned to peek over the shelve tops to see the cause of commotion. Gabby had no idea what she found to be so hilarious; paying for a useless bag of flour was not funny. But her mother continued to laugh until tears ran from her eyes and she clutched the stitch in her middle, caused by her tumultuous laugh that had shook her whole body. Wiping her eyes, and still chuckling slightly, her mother was finally able to speak.
"Your…face…" she broke into laughter again while raising a hand and wiping away the white powder that had coated Gabby's entire round little face. Seeing the look of complete puzzlement in Gabby's features, she was sent into another bought of hysterics as Gabby for the first time realized her whole head was covered in a white veil. At this Gabby couldn't help joining in with her mother, her shrill, high pitched laugh coursed with her mothers, sweet, smooth one, as both stood in the middle of the isle, thoroughly caught up in enjoying the moment. By the time they had both calmed down, the owners son, alerted by their laughter, was already standing near by, waiting for their fit to end so he could sweep up the mess.
Gabby shifted uncomfortably in her cupboard, at that time, everything had seemed wonderful, she was her mother's daughter, and they loved one another. Daddy lover her and her mother, and even being poor didn't seem to upset her back then. Life had been so blissful, so wonderful; Gabby thought sadly, recalling that standing in the isle with her mother, covered in flour. That was the last time either of them had laughed till now, and Gabby's mother would never be able to again.
The owners son, coughed to get their attention, and Gabby and her mom struggled to lift out the busted flour bag from the basket. This in turn only caused it to spill more, and with a curt phrase from the displeased boy, they picked up the three, surprisingly undamaged candy bars from admits the wreckage, gathered a few other odd items, butter, oil, sewing thread, and hand in hand, they skipped towards the cashier.
"Don't worry about the flour." The man said at the counter. Any other customer he most likely would have made them pay. However, he couldn't help that he had always had a soft spot for the little girl. She was always so fun to watch when she came here with her mother. Her energy and curiosity amused him. He had always wanted a little girl for himself, but he had only managed to get five boys instead, and his wife was far too old for childbearing now. Besides, he sighed, he didn't think he could afford a sixth child, and it would probably be another boy any way. Having boys seemed to run in his family; the only girl he could remember was his great aunt (long gone now) who was the only girl out of eight boys. She had almost died in childbirth too. Coming out of memory lane, the storeowner, a thin balding man, rang up the items Gabby's mother, Louise, had handed him.
"How are you doing tonight Louise? I'm a little surprised to see you here so late when there's a mean storm like the one tonight, and buying odd things for that matter; chocolate bars and thread?!" He questioned raising his eyebrows and chuckling.
"Oh, my little Gabby here," she said ruffling her still white hair, "she wanted some hot chocolate for the storm, and you can't say no to a little girl who wants chocolate, epically with the way she looks at you. It just makes my heart melt every time! Besides, I had to pick up a few miscellaneous items anyway." She said more to Gabby than the man. Her smile made Gabby really realize just how loved she was, and she felt her heart ach as she tried to return the feeling with her eyes and smile.
"That'll be 6 pence ma'am." He said bringing Louise's attention back to him.
"All right then," she said, rummaging through her small purse she had extracted from a pocket in her coat. Gabby knew that even though it was only six pence, it was still hard to come by for the Parson family. Tight lipped, her mother handed over six small coins and shut the clasp on her purse. She then swung on her coat, and with a flick of her hand, indicated that Gabby do the same.
"Thank you kindly Louise." The man said. "And thank you Will." she replied taking back the things they had bought in a small paper bag that he handed her. As Gabby's mother turned to leave, once again the bell above the door tinkled. Gabby stepped in front of her mother, curious to see whom the person was. The person was clad in a large dark coat, black, with the hood up. It looked tired, and in need of repair or retirement, there were holes and the color had faded to a light shade of grayish black. As Gabby stared into the faceless creature, she felt goose bumps rise all over her arms, and she knew it wasn't because of the wind that the stranger had brought in with him. Standing some 30 feet away, the stranger stopped and let the door swing shut behind it, for there was no way to be certain whether "it" was a man or a women. Will, the shop owner, the stranger, and both Gabby and her mother were frozen, simply staring, not sure what to make of the situation. Then, Gabby watched horrified as the thing pulled out a shiny silver handgun from within the folds of its coat. Eyes popping in fright, she felt like her feet had become like lead as it turned the shiny head of the gun, right at her stomach. She watched the thing pull the trigger with a pale hand, and heard the explosion issue from the black hole in the head of the gun. As the bullet speed towards her, she could not think, not move, not even breath. She heard her mother scream, high and unnatural, and saw her move her slender body to the left, blocking Gabby's view from the ever-approaching bullet. Then, thump. Her mother's stomach heaved backward as her body fallowed, causing a distorted whiplash that shook her body. Her mother's figure, began to quaver on the spot, and teetered. Will ran from the counter, face even whiter than Gabby's flour coated one, and caught Louise before her body hit the cold hard floor. Gabby could only hear her own breath, in and out, she seemed mute to everything around her. She stood confused, her mind frozen, unable to process the situation. She saw the cloaked creature run behind the now unguarded cashier and wrench it open, stuffing the coins and notes into it's pockets. Then the figure turned, and speed out the door, putting the shiny thing away once more, and went out the door without looking back. The bell tinkered once again as the door swung shut behind the stranger.
The small cupboard was now riveting with Gabby's sobs, it had been a long time since she had deviled back into her mind this far, and the pain made her whole body ach. She now cursed herself, for the hundredth time. Why had she just stood there, and let her mother take her life to save her?
Gabby's head began to process information once again, and as it started up, Gabby was suddenly stuck with a pain so fierce, it almost made her collapse. A weight burdened her shoulders as she looked down at the pitiful, bloody crumpled heap that was her mother. She collapsed onto her knees and reached out a shaking hand to wipe that stands of hair that hung over her mother's face. She felt Will's hand on her shoulder as her hand parted her mother's coat, searching for the wound. She felt a thick stickiness on her fingers, and drew them out from within the coat, holding them up to see. They were coated with dark blood that ran down her hand. She turned her head, still silent, her voice lost, as she gazed unbelieving at the nightmare before her. A small river of dark blood began to creep down the floor, its origin from a hole in her mother's backside. Will watched the girl careful with his heart heavy as she began to stroke her mothers face, quietly whispering for her to get up so they could go home and make hot coco. Then he watched as she stopped, staring, into Louis's open but unseeing eyes. There was no warmth, no familiar flicker to remind Gabby that everything was going to be all right. Gabby voice became shrill and unnatural, she began to shout and scream, and now the tears streamed forth, with no sign of ever stopping. And, for the most part, Will was right. It seemed that Gabby never did stop crying after she had began. Her life had changed that faithful night, the night her mother was stolen from her. Will watched sadly as she stopped screaming, her voice so horse it could barley be heard, as she lay her head on her mother's chest, her small body quivering with grief. The brown bag lay crumpled to the left, the chocolate now forgotten. After that night, Gabby Parson never looked the same. Her eyes never again shone with that spark of life that Will had so loved to see. Gabby was a broken sole, and she was only seven. However, Will didn't know that Gabby's father never quite recovered from the incident either.
Will didn't know, Gabby thought furiously, no one knew. Father had made sure of that. At first, life was hard, they both grieved, went to the funeral, hardly spoke, each trying to get through each day. Life was so quite, so meaningless without mother. At first, Gabby had pitied her father, she had never realized he had loved her as much as he did, but then he began to turn that love, once so pure, into a tainted and dirty hate. An evil hate, not at the stranger who committed the crime, for they never discovered who it was, but at Gabby. He had then began to drink she remembered, about a year after her death, when the grief had subsided and the hate settled in its place. He began to drink so much, that there wasn't an hour of the day that wasn't father's happy hour. The house began to stink, with the stench of alcohol. Their savings were getting eaten alive, three quarters of it went to his consumption of beer. And, it was in this murky bottle that he found a way to ease his pain, he made Gabby his target of hate. He began to call her a murder, a thief of his wife, he would rant that she planed it, hired the stranger to kill her. He shouted that she killed her mum for chocolate. The problem was, that Gabby knew deep down that he wasn't entirely wrong. She had been the one to beg her mum to go to the store, and for what? Messily chocolate bars. She had been the one that just stood there when the gun was pulled, and her mother had saved her, she had steeped in front of the bullet so Gabby could live. The guilt that surfaced with this was almost unbearable. He used to force her to stand in front of the mirror and say over and over "I am a murder, I am a murder." Gabby had begun to believe this too, began to hate herself. Then, it got worse. Father would come home, and at first, he would only hit or slap her for doing something wrong, like burning the dinner, not doing the chores. He was disciplining her, maybe a bit stricter than need be, but his punishments weren't unreasonable. Then, they had become without justifiable reason. He would throw things, hit, kick; smack her for "walking wrong," "smiling to much," "not doing her chores fast enough." It wasn't long after, when there were no longer explanations, he simply would come home, beat her until she was a bloody wreck, and then settle down in a chair with a beer, content, feeling he had taught her well. It became pleasurable for him. He would laugh as he kicked her over and over. Sometimes he was more creative, and would make her stick her arm in the fire, eat rotten food, and make her stand on one foot, or on her head, for hours at a time. This is why Gabby learned to fear and hate her father. He had taken a love and turned it into a hate that became an obsession. Sometimes she wished he would just kill her, end the horrors she had to live, both at home and at school. Home, she faced a battle to stay alive. At school she became a subject for ridicule. No one questioned why she was covered in bruises and marks, everyone figured she must be really bad, and her father had a right to properly discipline her. She couldn't do much to prove them wrong either; she was constantly steeling foods so she could eat, fighting with kids out of anger and loneliness, and doing poorly on tests and work because she no longer had the heart, or a purpose, to do well.
Gabby sat, tear streaks, now dry, lined her face, pulling it taught. She felt so angry, so hopeless. Would she ever escape? Could she ever defeat her father? Gabby voluntarily moved a hand to her upper stomach, and traced the thin scar, about an inch and a half long. This was where her father had almost succeeded in killing her. This was where he had stabbed her three years ago. She had been forced to use a needle and thread to sew it up, and had to painfully squeeze it each day to get the yellow infected puss out until it closed completely up, almost 2 weeks after it had happened.
Suddenly, Gabby felt her heat leap to her throat, as her thoughts were cut short by a loud bang followed by a series of uneven footsteps. Someone had just walked in the front door, and in the process had almost fallen over. There was silence and Gabby thought that her lungs might burst with the effort of trying to breath quietly, and from the pressure that her left knees was exerting into her diaphragm. The person placed a shaky hand on the banister, trying to gain composer in his drunken state. He was a large, tall and very wide set man. He had scraggily week old stubble blotting his face and down his throat. He had salt and pepper hair that stood out at odd angles, and he was way overdue for a haircut. His eyes were a light watery blue, but hardly recognizable under the bushy eyebrows. The whites of his eyes were completely blood shot, streaked with red lines. His cheeks were red, and his teeth were crooked and a nasty shade of yellow. His breath came out rancid, putrid to all those around. His nose was large, and blotched with purple marks. His clothes were covered in past meals and liquids, and were home to many holes and rips. His shoes were brown leather hunks, 2 sizes to small. His big toe even protruded out of the right shoe. This drunkard, a horrible drunkard that lived off of alcohol in any form, was father. Father was home.
Lifting the dirt and filth caked hand that did not occupy the bottle; he brought it to his forehead and massaged his temples. His face was beaded with sweet, and some of the grim came off in the process.
Staggering slightly he bellowed into the darkness. "Gabriella!" His voice raspy and curt.
Gabby felt the breath catch in her throat. Fear flooded down her veins as she heard his footsteps advance up the rickety staircase in their hole of an apartment towards her. She began to rock slightly, eyes closed, hoping he would not find her before he passed out. As his footsteps neared her small cramped hiding place in the cupboard above the stove, she began to shake with terror. She then felt her eyes begin to water with the effort of keeping quite as he entered the room across from her hiding place.
"Oh, Gabby! Gabby where are you! Come out come out wherever you are! Daddy wont hurt you!" The man cooed in a singsong voice, but his face remanded hard and angry as a flare of hate sparked in his little watery eyes. Gabby wasn't fooled; in fact she was even more scared if that was possible. When he got like this, when he pretended to just be her friend and say that he wouldn't hurt her, this meant that he was mad, madder than usual and this was never a good sign if she wished to keep her frail body intact. He turned, his footsteps growing ever louder on the dusty wood floor. Gabby now realized she was holding her breath. Her heart was beating a million miles an hour, and she was certain he could hear it. It sounded like a hammer against her chest with every beat. She willed her heart to stop too, with all her might. He would hear it if it didn't, she was sure of it. She began to feel lightheaded, and, as quietly as possible let the breath escape from her trembling lips.
"Are you in here?" Father bellowed opening up the stove door and squatting down to peer inside. By now he was getting annoyed, his patience was easily wrung. Taking another swig of the amber liquid, he began pulling open more draws and cupboards, scattering the contents within using one giant sweep with his club of a hand. Gabby was now frantic with fear and anticipation. Now father had dropped his singsong voice and had adopted the harsh cold tone that she was only too familiar with. 'He must be getting really impatient' she thought apprehensively. And he was.
"Gabriella, come out now! I'll be a lot nicer if you do, but if you don't, you best hope that you hid well because when I find you, I'm gonna make you sorry you was ever born!" He shouted, his words slurring with anger and drunkenness. His muscles began to twitch in anticipation. He moved his disgusting hand toward the only cupboard in the room he hadn't checked. Gabby's whole body stiffened as an absolute silence filled the room. 'He's found me, he's found me' she whimpered to herself. Right then, the door was burst open as father jerked hard on the handle, spilling light into her meager hole. Her father stared at her, and she stared back, fear covering every corner of her pale face. He gave a sneer of success, his eyes alight with a fiery glaze, and stuck his hand in to grab her from protection. At that moment, without even thinking, as fear pulsed in her very heart, she lashed out screaming with the heal of her boot and struck him hard in the face. The force knocked him clean back and with a look of utter amazement, and blood streaming from his crooked nose, he began to fall backward towards the wall behind him. He beat his arms to frantically in the air, attempting to gain balance. But, as he failed to gain control, he fell back, and with a sickening thud that made goose bumps spring up on Gabby's arms, his head cracked against he wall opposite of her hiding spot. Father's expression went blank and his eyes rolled back exposing the valley of reds clearer than before silhouetted against the whites. As gravity took hold of the limp body he slid down to the ground leaving a trail of sticky dark blood on the wall before he crumpled into an awful heap. Gabby sat, transfixed at the grotesque image with one leg dangling out of the cupboard, still swinging with the momentum from the kick. She sat there, completely frozen for a few minutes, breathing hard, while the blood formed a puddle next to the limp body. Finally, she got up her courage and hopped down to the stove, and then to the ground, trying to be as quite as possible. She knew he was past ever waking up but she couldn't help acting any differently. She edged along the opposite wall and out the door. She stood looking at him, realizing that she felt no pity or regret for what she had done.
Suddenly, as she stared at him, her face contorted with anger, and her blood began to boil. Then, without thinking she screamed, bellowing at the limp figure. "That's what you get you fucking bastard!" The anger in her voice amazed even her. "That's what you get…" she repeated almost in a whisper letting her shaky voice trail off. Then she broke into sobs, emotions caged for so long spilling out. She couldn't help it; she just slid to the floor out in the hall blubbering. She couldn't be sure how long she had sat there, wishing more than ever for her mother to comfort her. But she couldn't, for Gabby had killed her mother, and now she had killed her father too. Thoughts swirled about her head, both complex and simple, making her suddenly feel quite dizzy. In no time, she had drifted off into an uneasy slumber. A little while later, tired and groggy, she got up and made her way down the hall. She then began to quickly rummage among the dump she lived in, gathering clothes and any possessions she could use. She was leaving, leaving this nightmare, and starting a new life. With a renewed since of courage and energy, she quickly looted her father's drawers in his room for anything of value, but only found 19 pence and a couple of old brooches. She was actually quite pleased, he was always spending every coin he came into contact with on alcohol, and it amazed her that she was able to scrounger that much. The brooches were almost useless unless she could make some sucker believe they were real antiques and not just neglected and worthless. It didn't take her long to stuff all her possessions into a brown paper bag, and without a last glance at the body in the kitchen, she ran down the stairs, bag in hand slapping against her thighs with every steep. Finally, finally she was leaving the hell that she had lived in for ten long years of her life. She bound out the door, already her conscience forgetting the murder she had committed, more lighthearted than she could remember feeling for a very long time. Her young 17-year-old mind began to blossom with hopes, dreams, and ideas as the cool night air swirled around her; her newfound freedom was just itching with possibilities. She headed east from the city, towards the straight, towards the ferry, towards Paris and a promising future and out of London and a painful past.
