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God, No One Listens...
God, no one listens to these preachers on TV, I thought as I flicked through the channels. Religion was aged, pointless, and a waste of a whole Sunday. I would much rather watch Sunday morning cartoons or just sleep in till noon. Finally, I settled on ABC Family where the Secret Life of the American Teenager was on. It was my favorite show, I stopped watching for a while when Grace would get on there and preach about God. It was sickening and untrue.
I learned long ago that life is not fair and that people –or God– did not help you. My family had never been right since the “accident”. Mom and Dad did not speak to each other anymore, once a couple that lived in complete harmony, now lived detached lives. They would only talk if it had to do with money, and usually that grew into a dispute which would advance into yelling and screaming and door slamming. Besides that though, the house stayed silent. I hardly talked, it was not my place to try to fix my parents marriage which had become awry since the death of my little sister or as we referred to it as, the “accident”.
My sister was the sunshine of mine and my parents’ existent. Sophie was a year younger than me, white-blonde hair that was always a chaos of curls. She was slender, athletic, and we all knew she would one day go to college for tennis. She was a truly gifted; she made straight A’s and was bright and intelligent. She was my whole world. When she died, it was absolute devastation on my family. Spot, our German Shepherd, had been hit by a car and broke his leg. Sophie loved Spot with all her heart, and would usually sit outside and pet him since he could not walk to her. I remember the whole overwhelming scene.
“Richard, could you run to the store for me real fast? We’re out of eggs and I need three for the cookies.” Mom said to Dad while wiping her hands on her apron.
Dad walked over and kissed her on the cheek, “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He threw on his boots and walked out the front door. “What kind of cookies are you making, Mom?” I asked, hoping she would say Snickerdoodle, which was Sophie and mine’s favorite.
“Snickerdoodle,” she said, smiling her dimples appearing out of thin air. I have to go tell Sophie, I thought swiftly. I ran to the back room to find her.
“Sophie!” I called out, looking through our room. I noticed my iPod was missing, typical. Sophie always borrowed it, she liked the music I had and Mom and Dad would not buy her one till her next birthday when she turned fifteen. “Mom, where’s Sophie?”
I heard the clatter of what sounded like cups and Mom replied, “I think I saw her walk through about fifteen minutes ago. I bet she went outside to pet Spot.”
I headed towards the front door, and that’s when I heard the truck door slam and Dad screamed Sophie’s name. “Mom! Something’s wrong!” I yelled, as I bolted out the front door to the driveway. Dad was holding Sophie, crying. Her eyes were shut, and if you did not know something bad had happened, she looked like she had fallen asleep in his arms.
It was hard to remember anything after that moment. It was a blur of confusion. The one thing that remained a fact, Sophie did not make it out of the hospital. At first Mom and I did not know how Dad could have missed Sophie sitting behind his truck petting Spot.
One of Spot’s favorite places was getting cover from the hot June sun under Dad’s truck. Sophie had gone out to pet him, like she normally did, and had my iPod on. Sophie did not hear Dad start his truck. And Dad could not see her in his mirrors. Just like that, I became an only child. Just like that, my parents started hating each other. Just like that, my Dad got fired, and took up drinking as a full-time job. And, just like that, our family was in tatters, and I did not think we would ever recover.
My Dad walked in, breaking my reverie. The sour alcohol odor seeped off of him. “Suzanne, come –slur– here.” He was barely audible.
I shook my head fiercely, “Dad, you’re drunk. I’m not going anywhere with you like that.” There was an injured tone in my voice. He grumbled something. Then all of a sudden, his eyes had vicious fury in them.
“I SAID COME HERE,” He yelled, and grabbed my arm. My Dad was a muscular man, and when drunk, I doubt he realized his strength. I was sixteen years old, and a hundred and twenty pounds, it did not take much to send me airborne. And he did.
My face was the first thing that came in contact with that heavy, wooden dresser. I opened my mouth to scream, but only silence escaped. I tasted that vile metallic and salt flavor of blood, and I was instantaneously sick to my stomach. It felt like something had struck me in the head, it throbbed ruthlessly. I turned and looked at my Dad; he stood still in my room, gaze bearing down on me in hate. “Dad, how could you DO THIS TO ME!?” I screeched. He took another sip from the aluminum can he was holding, and then crushed it. Tossing it towards me, he left my room.
Silently, to myself, sitting on my knees, face bloody and bashed, I prayed. God, no one listens…But I think you will. Please help me. I know I said some awful things about you, but please. You’re my last hope. Please, save me. Because, God, no one listens…