My Happy Place

Written August 23, 2006 in class.

Added 9/6/06.

Added 9/11/06.

Added 9/12/06.

ONE DAY
My life goes on. I live. Mother and Father fight. He yells and she just sits there, her eyes spitting sparks almost real enough to burn the hardwood floor, and yet refusing to look up or make any sound for fear of getting hit. We're all like that too; me, Abby, and James. Father shouts, we look down and stay quiet. It's no wonder we find Mother alone in thier bedroom, lying there, her unfoucused eyes glazed over, a weird slackness to her features. Tightly wound around her upper-arm is a bright pink bandana. We know better than to bother her now; this is her only escape from her abusive marriage. Abby follows suit with her own escape of razor blades, glass straws, and little bags of hellish snow-white powder. James leaves to find solace in the bed of his girlfriend. I myself lock the door to my room and induldge in rainbow-colored pils with comical names.

ANOTHER DAY
Mother got taken to the hospital this morning. Father hasn't been home since last night. Abby found her at 3 in the morning collasped on the floor, not breathing. I called 911. Everyone is gone. I went into my parents room and frowned as I walked through the door at the mess and the smell. Clothing strewn all over, a sharp odor that could have been rubbing alcohol, the tools of Mother's heroin bliss, and the telltale scent of burned marijuana. I shoved her incriminating items into her matching bright pink sack and pulled out the secret dresser drawer. I noticed with disgust Father's personal stash: a collection of whitish-yellow chunks and a small glass pipe. My eyes blurry with unsheld tears, I got off my knees, ran to the bathroom and flushed it all down the drain. Father already had enough poison in his blood without this. I retreated to my room again to search for something, anything, to distract my mind from this living Hell. I found something sufficient: orange BiC lighter, red-and-blue swirled glass piece, and sticky buds, all locked safely in my box under the bed. I huddled crouched in the corner of my dark room, searching in vain for comfort in this evil place through my artificial happiness. Jumbled thoughts rushed through my head...what am I going to do?...is Mother safe?...how will I survive?...
Moans of anguish escaped from my traitorous lips, along with tears streaming down my cheeks to make little round dots of wetness on my jeans. My hands trembled too much to control the lighter, so I gave up my quest for that artificial calm.

SOME OTHER DAY
Father hasn't been heard from in 4 days. Mother is still in the hospital, but getting better. The doctors give her medication to keep her from her cravings. Abby has a job and can foot the bills until we know what's going to happen. James shows up every now and then with red eyes and reeking of liquor and in a bad mood, uncaring as to what will happen to us. He got even angrier when he saw my dialated pupils and smelled the stale smoke clinging to my hair. I'm past caring what he thinks, the stupid hypocrite, coming home and telling me I can't do what he's been doing since the age of 13. Other than that, I'm the only one home. None of us has been going to school; I think even Abby dropped out of her college classes to work full time.

NEXT DAY
The police showed up at the front door this morning. I was alone in the house. I thought one of the neighbors had called them after hearing the comotion for a week. They questioned me a the door about my father's whereabouts, and when I told them he had left and hadn't been seen again, their frowning faces told me everything.
"I'm sorry," one of them said, "Your father was found late last night on 5th St. bridge. He was hit by a car. I appears to have been suicide."
I turned away from them, and walked away from the open front door. I had no tears to shed for such a monster who was better off dead.I think the officers closed the door and left to come back later. I retreated to my room, that dimly lit box where I suffered. The tears the eventually came were not for him, but for the fear of what was going to happen to the rest of my family. Abby is the only one to support us. Mother is likely to kick James out of the house because he does nothing to help and only causes trouble.
She won't let me drop out of school; I'm only a junior. She's said in the past that I need to get a full education and graduate, no matter the things that go on at home. I know she's right, but school is tourture. I don't even talk to anybody. I go, I learn, I suffer. Not even the seductive curve of my face can make the guys look. I'm invisible to them. My tight jeans, small shirts, painstakingly styled hair, carefully applied make-up, it's all wasted on them. I look at them through my green-blue eyes, and they look through me, not at me. Nobody ever sees me.

SOME OTHER DAY
Mother's come home at last. The police visited her in the hospital and told her the news. She was sad, but not regretful. She told them it was for the best. They asked her why she hadn't reported the abuse, and she told them that Father had threatened to take us away from her. He had the leverage in court, he yelled at her when she was brave enough to cross him. He told her that he would take us away and she would never see us again. She believed him. There were no charges to be brought against any of us for his death, since we all had alabis and he'd left a suicide note, saying that he couldn't bear the burden of a family any longer. No appology, no regrets about his treatment of us, only ever thinking of himself and his selfishness. I hate him, and I always will. We're all better off without him.
I went back to my parents' room again, got on my knees, and pulled out the secret drawer, only to find that it was empty. I went to find Mother to ask her where everything was; her only response was a smile. She had thrown everything away. A good start, I would say, to a new chapter in our lives as a broken but recovering family. A very good start.