The Oh-So-Beautiful Stairs

February 3, 2010
“You f****** lier!” she screams as she shoves me. I try to grab onto something, the railing, the wall, and her knee-high b**** kickers that must seem so fitting to her right now. I tumble a couple times, hitting my head on the oh-so-beautiful wooden stairs, finally coming to a stop on the landing. I don’t move.

“You little b****! How could you?” she spits at me as she gracefully descends the flight of stairs that my body knows so well now. She leans down into my face, swollen and bruising now, and slaps me across my left cheek.
“Just…go! Get the f*** out of here. Go!” She storms past me, and stalks over to the bar. Pours herself a soda and scotch, heavy on the latter. Chugs it down and shoots me a look that would melt steel. I stumble up the stairs, tripping at the top, and literally fall into my room. I pick myself up for the millionth time and walk over to my dresser. Grab my purse, phone, and iPod. Dive under my bed and grab the envelope full of emergency cash, kept just for these times. I go to the bathroom and wipe the blood off my face with a tissue, wincing as the tears I hadn’t noticed before run into the scrapes. After I look “normal” again, the tears subside enough for me to see. I hear a door slam and a few seconds later, the engine of her Escalade roar. I know she’s gone for the night. I’ll probably have to pick her up in the morning, hung-over as hell, but for now, I wish she would just hit that telephone pole on Rice Street and not come home.

Five minutes later, I’m fully dressed and calm enough to drive. My little brother is over at the gym working, and I have to go pick him up.

He sees the look on my face, the bruises and the cuts, too, and doesn’t say a word. We drive over to the little Italian dive a couple blocks over and get something to eat. I stick with breadsticks; he gorges himself on spaghetti and meatballs. The place is mercifully quiet, and we still don’t say much. Finally when we’re done, he asks if we’re going home tonight.
No. Not tonight, I tell him.

I pay the check and we head back to the car. I hook up my iPod and blast Attack Attack as loud as it can go, roll down the windows, and head towards Amanda’s house. Send her a quick text. Cn we sleep ovr 2nite?? She responds with a quick yes, and I sigh with relief.

When we get there, it’s almost midnight. My little brother is asleep in the passenger seat, still in his Cougars shirt and sweatpants from work. I gently wake him up and we go around back to Amanda’s room. The couch is made up with sheets for me and the blow up mattress is for my little brother.
“This is the third time this week,” Amanda says once my little brother is asleep. I nod. There’s not much to say. “You need to report this. At least call you dad and tell him what’s going on.”
I shake my head. “He wouldn’t believe me. He’s got his head stuck so far up his a** in his work that he’s blind to what my mom is doing”, I tell Amanda. She sees the faraway look in my face and holds out her hand, palm up and open. I know what she wants. I dig into my purse and hand her the cherry wood, gold-plated knife, and she whispers “thank you”. I nod and roll over on my side, and try to sleep. She takes the knife and locks it away for the night, knowing that I’ll take it again in the morning, but also knowing that I’ll be safe for now. Safe until tomorrow, that is.

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vail09 said...
Nov. 11, 2011 at 7:20 am
by the way i love attack attack!
vail09 said...
Nov. 11, 2011 at 7:19 am
this is brilliant writing! the details all come to life...i feel as if i were there wittnising the fight for my self..hiding in a corner hoping the darkness would keep me safe even if i know it cant....please email me you could help me with my stories and i yours.
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