You're Everything I Hate

October 15, 2009
By Minda Spaul BRONZE, Benton, Arkansas
Minda Spaul BRONZE, Benton, Arkansas
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

“Everyone knows you’re fake, you’re everything I hate, and everything you could never be.” Godsmack yells over my radio so loud that if there was someone way out here they might think I was holding a live concert in my car. A loud thump comes from my trunk; surprisingly I hear it and think, “She must be awake.” I turn the glowing knob on my radio making the music just loud enough to conceal her frivolous attempts at escaping. It’s practically the only light in sight on this dirt road. Sliding my gloved fingers over the buttons I find the one to roll my window down and let my long black hair flip around behind me. I can see my eyes in my rearview mirror, reflecting the same cold, black of my hair. My nose comes to a sharp point, I grimace, it looks just like hers. “My thin lips look much better when I smile,” I think to myself. “I’ll be smiling again before too long.” I pass a dirty road sign, four miles until you reach the dump. A nasty smelling boy at school, whose dad works there, announced that they were all getting an unexpected day off, Sunday. Knowing that meant easy access, I decided it would be the perfect place. My foot grows heavy on the gas pedal with anticipation, and I begin to think about all the things I was about to get revenge for.
* * *
“You’re nothing, you’ll never be anything but a little,” she was screaming so loud I could see the veins popping under her hateful eyes. The brown in them contrast the nappy, stringy, dirty blonde hair perfectly. Her little frame straight as a rod, with that crooked bony finger pointed right at me. I’m only eleven or so in this memory and tears run down my face like a faucet is hidden behind my lids. My crying sends her into a fury and she chunks a baby stroller in my direction with all her might, breaking the window behind me and sending shards of glass everywhere. I screamed not in horror, but out of ultimate frustration, I’ll be here trapped with her forever it seems. “You can’t do anything right can you?” “Yes mommy,” I whimpered, but inside was screaming. “I’ll show you.”
* * *
I slowly pull into the parking lot of the dump, the dirt turning to gravel. “I’ll show you mom, I’ll show you tonight.” I pull my single key out of the ignition and push open the door. She always said I had no common sense, but I’ve made it this far. I reach around back and grab my little leather bag of tools from the floor board. I giggle to myself as the thought of her wallowing in self pity in my trunk crosses my mind. She had done all the work for me. She got drunk and passed out on the couch, still fully clothed. I had backed my car up to the front door and had only the task of dragging her unconscious body to the door and lifting her into the trunk. Wa, la. I slide out of my beat up Honda and triumphantly waltz to the trunk; I’ve waited my whole life for this. The key slides in and I can hear her wiggling around. Punching the top to scare her a little, I proceed to open the trunk. I notice she has been crying. “Good,” I half whisper to her, “feel sorry for yourself, you’re the only one.” The orange hunting rope has been cutting into her skin. I grab it and yank her out of the car. I slowly drag her body around back of the tin building labeled “You Dump It”. Her screams make me smile for the first time in weeks, but I still don’t need anyone coming to inspect so I swing a boot into her ribs. “Shut up!” I scream. “You can’t do anything right can you?”

The author's comments:
This piece is for all the kids fed up with abuse in their home lives.

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