14DENY FORGIVENESS-R-BIENFOY
He doesn't know. No-one does. I'm not planning to tell them, either. It's not like it'll be a problem once I do...what I'm about to do. I just need to get drunk enough. Hey, wouldn't that hurt the baby anyway? Brain damage or something?
Oh, but an important thing i'm forgetting, it's not a baby yet. It's still a "foetus", now. At least, that's what the abortion-clinic woman told me: "Don't think of it as a child...it's ...cells..."
OH, yeah, great help. I got the almost-scary trainee when I went there. Couldn't they see that a 16-year-old, without anyone with her, would need the *most* comforting, *not* the least?
I didn't go through with it.
But back to the present. The disgusting, all too real, present. I'm standing in the pristine white-and-blue bathroom, soaps, shampoos, little bottles of 'care' lined up only bottle I care about is raised to my lips, and I skull another load, it burns down my thoat and emits a warm glow from my stomach, the room seems friendlier. Liquid courage, I like to call it.
I love it. But isn't this the stuff that got me here in the first place?Him, with his bottles?
I look at the label with its cloying little design, the bottle, the insides, and suddenly it seems digusting.I throw it against the wall and watch it smash into a million little peices, spurting its brown gold, dirtying the white, the horrible white.
Immediatly after seeing it land everywhere, seeing it disappear down the little squinting, glaring holes in the floor to the endless pipes, my actions are regretted. What would numb the pain now?
It doesn't matter, I'll do it anyway. I'll do anything to stop *it*. I have to do it if I want *him* to stop. To stay off me, away from me...out of me. Out of my body, out my mind, out of *me*.
He's fucking everywhere.
"Mother" makes me call him "father" even though she knows what he does. He does it to her, too, I've seen it, heard it. The screams. The yelling, the taunting, the threats, the violence. The screams...
But , Christ, has she done anything about it? Fuck, no.
He'd find out and kill me before I got the pleasure of doing it myself. Or wishing I had. I didn't want to give him that satisfaction. Any satisfaction, ever. But he's made me.
I've already told my mother I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna end it all, on my terms and the way I want to. I told her this morning, and she was drunker then than I am now. A huge bruise adorned the left side of her face, the shocking yellow-purple accentuated by the harsh morning sunlight, the salt and pepper hair filthy and once-bright blue eyes faded to a maze of destruction, betrayal, disgust.
She said she'd do it too, while I was at school. I said a short goodbye. I hope she understood I meant it, not like him with his pathetic attempts at apology, when he's even arsed to do that.
She did it, true to her word for once. It was on the news at school, but I could still come home now because she did it away from the house. Wasn't that considerate of her?
He wouldn't have seen it. He won't find both his personal mauling rags and beating bag whores were dead until he got home and walked through the door with that smug little grin that made people want to skin him alive and burn him.
I now pick up my weapon of choice. The sleek, refined,endless, depthless black staring back at me. His gun, ironically enough. Loaded...ready whenever I tell it to be. A fairly quick death, I supposed. Hadn't really had any experience in the topic of guns. Knives, sure. My wrists would tell you that.I figured, now, I'd already been through enough pain. He was the one that deserved it.
I'd had so many fantasies about killing him. Countless times in countless ways. Most involving at least 12 bones being broken. I'd knew that I'd never hesitate, given the chance. I'd love to see the look on his face. Well, I'd really love to chop his face off, but that's a different pleasure.
As I looked at the almost welcoming black metal, reflecting the white, the sky outside had almost darkened to it's daily finale- sunset. I faced the window now, thinking that I may as well see something beautiful before I went. I didn't usually like sunset. The night was when he chose to strike, hiding in the veils of black and was a warning.
Ouside the window two children laughed, contradicting the occasion harshly. They were holding hands, they were twins. Mirror images, or was I just that drunk?I held a hand out in front of me. Just that that drunk. I 'd had a twin, once, my mother told me. She'd only lasted about 3 months. He killed it. Shook it. It wouldn't shut up. I knew better, apparently. I wish I was *that* twin.
I thought all these sad and bitter thoughts, but no tears came to my eyes. I was so beyond caring, so ready for this it was amazing. It was a release, an option for air, for freedom, for sanity, for purity. For an innocence and childhood.
Oh. That's his car, pulling up outside, in the driveway. He *obviously* hasn't seen the news, he's got a spring in his maybe he has seen it...? Happy usually means more trouble than mad.
His huge, disgusting, red face can be seen from this distance. His overweight stomach. His balding patches. His beady little mud brown eyes. His too small button up over a grubby white shirt, sauce spilled on it from sausage legs. His beef hands. He's a walking butchers. Maybe one that's passed its used by date?
His footsteps trek across the gravel path with a crunch I've grown to hate. Detest. Fear. My face is pale and I've started sweating. It's not nerves. It's anticipation. I want to do this. I HAVE to do this.
He's putting his key in the lock; he never gets it right, not after 5 years here, the pathetic shit. I put the gun against my temple and it's the perfect weight, the perfect cooling temperature, the perfect texture. He's slowly turned the knob. I position my finger, make it familiar.
He slams the door and pull back and let it go, my eyes fixed on a point far out the window, fixed on an ordinary pigeon, flying loosely.
"Honey, I'm home!" he called out sarcastically.
And as my body drops to the gound, I feel : I'm free.