Where the Sun Doesn't Shine
By: Kem'Ajiana (Erin Norris)
Prologue
Dear Reader,
The thing about life is that it isn't always sunshine and roses like everyone preaches it to be. Take my life, for example.
My mother, Nadine, died of breast cancer when I was four, just ten months after the birth of the twins – Eric and Nikkei. My father, Howard, turned from a loving, doting gentleman to a mean and vicious drunk; his love of drink transformed him into a sour man with a heavy fist. His guilt at losing my mother manifested itself in hatred towards my brother and sister, on whom I doted and viewed as my final link to my dead mother. My adoration angered Howard further, however, and I quickly learned techniques to divert his temper away from the twins. Unfortunately, that usually backfired towards me in very unpleasant, sometimes painful, ways.
I began to realize my father had a problem around the time I was nine or ten. He would come home late at night, alcohol heavy on his breath, hours after I had already put the twins to bed. I was expected, as the eldest, to be up and waiting for him to return. It was while I waited that I would prepare for the following day, just as my mother used to: making lunches, doing laundry, cleaning house, and the like. Howard would come home and immediately collapse in his chair, and I would drape Mother's quilt over his shoulders before escaping to my room for the remainder of the night.
The first time Howard struck us, I was thirteen. I had been at the stove, stirring the spaghetti sauce for dinner. Nikkei, who had just turned ten, had been helping me set the table when her toe had caught the edge of the dining room carpet. The plates slid from her grasp and two of the four shattered on the hardwood floor. Our father had been sleeping in his chair, nursing a hangover from the night before, when this had occurred, and it had jerked him from a dead sleep. Nikkei had cowered before him as he'd stormed towards her, the blood rushing to his cheeks in his anger. His eyes had glittered like ice as he'd raised his fist to strike her, his furious roars nearly shaking the house to the foundation. Spittle dribbled down his chin as he ranted and raged about how she'd be eating on the floor for the next twenty years. His hand came down with a force that would have knocked even me into unconsciousness.
Eric, my small, brave hero, ducked between them at the last second, even as the spoon in my hands clattered to the bottom of the sink.
I'll never forget that horrified, blank look on my brother's face as he sat there, dazed, on the ground, his hand clutching at his cheek as there began to form a large, red bruise. His blonde hair had been ruffled and his green eyes – Mother's eyes – had been bright with hatred, pain, and unshed tears. It was that heart-wrenching moment that sparked a tiny flame, a sliver of desire, fueled by my fear for the twins' lives, to escape from this nightmarish life.
No matter the cost, I would save my brother and sister, even if it meant my life for theirs.
And, so, dear Reader, my story is borne.
Signed,
Cassandra
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