A Weekend in Seattle
May 9, 2008
Day 1
I don't know how long I stayed out there, but I do know the sun was just setting when I sat up. The sky was orange- yellow, but that's beside the point. The point is, I'm a wimp. There, I said it. I've always been a wimp, and I always will be. I mean, I may be a little hard on myself, but I've learned that self esteem is for wimps. Or, at least that's what my mother used to tell me. Why don't I just explain what happened back there, with the violent shaking of my shoulders, the crying, and the thing about abuse.
One day, when I was six, I had just come home from elementary school. It was May, but that's not important. My mom and dad were in the middle of a fight. I was used to it, and it had become routine for me. Would come home and they would be yelling. But they would make up in the end…they always did. But this time was different. My father walked out on my mom.
At first, I thought everything was normal. My dad traveled a lot, so I thought he was going on another business trip. He was a consultant at a big company…no, a travel agent. The only reason I remember this is because he would always bring me back something….a stuffed animal, a keychain, and a map were his favorite's. So, this time, he was leaving for good. When I went downstairs, (I was watching them argue from my bedroom) my mom was crying on the front porch. I tried to comfort her, but she slapped my hand away when I tried to hug her. I figured she just wanted me to give her some time alone. But instead, she grabbed me by the hand and shook me. I cried, and she made it worse by calling me a wimp.
"This is all your fault… You're a spoiled little piece of crud. I hate you!" I can still hear those words ringing through my ears. She then gave me a good slap to my face, and I ran upstairs. I didn't know if I should call someone, or if she had too much to drink again. All I knew was that that feeling hurt. And the worst part is, it didn't stop.
The abuse kept going on. I was tired in school, and I was always trying to cover up the bruises I got. When someone saw, I had to give a lame excuse, like 'I fell down the stairs' and 'I tripped.' I was the school klutz. My grades were slipping, and my world was being turned upside down. All because my mom started drinking again.
I would come home, and mom would either be passed out on the couch or waiting for me at the door. The days she was passed out were lucky for me, it was my only escape. I would go up in my room, in my closet on my 3rd shelf. It was the only shelf large enough for a first grade girl to fit on. I would color, relax, and mend my wounds. But those were the lucky days.
On the unlucky days, I would come home unwillingly. She would squeeze me like she loved me, but it was more of a choke. I would get hit and spanked for no reason. I have been pushed down the stairs more times the finest mathematician can count. My mom never forgave me for getting smarter, either. In the third grade, I realized this was wrong, so I called the police. They arrested my mom, but when she got out of jail 2 years later, she promised me she had changed. I was wrong for moving back with her.
Her breath stank of beer and cigarettes. Her eyes were wrinkled at the edges, along with her cheeks. Her face was pale, similar to mine. Her nose seemed much larger from the last time I had seen her. Anyways, she came in close and pretended to hug me until the social workers were gone. Then, she gave me the beatings to make up for the ones I missed. It went on like this until 8th grade. She let me go to PCA. I didn't know why, but I was glad. Maybe it was the persuasion of Nathaniel, her new husband, and my new step dad. Although we weren't related by blood, at least he treated me like I was. At least he was sad when I left. Mother just lay on the couch, her eyes looking at nothing. Her pupils were the size of saucers, which only told me she was back to drinking once again.
By now, I am breathing heavily, and sobbing. I can tell you every place I have a cut, a bruise. My step dad has found me, and is trying to calm me down. He is stroking my back the way my father used to do. He is whispering words like "Hush, darlin'" and "It'll be ok" He gets me to go back into the car. I don't want to go, but I have to. I feel if I go now, I will be failing. And Quinn Pensky never fails.