It's Monday Night Again

When I repent, for all my sins

The bruises from last week have never healed

But still I know, my fate is sealed

I'll never run away

With you I'll always stay

I won't flinch from your hand

I'll listen to your demands

I promise I'll clean up

The shattered plates on the floor

And I can promise you

I won't walk out that door.

It's no longer fear

Of what you'll do to me

But hate of the mirror

And in it what I see

I used to be strong

My lip would never quiver

But this is further proof

Of the pain that you deliver

And I know it's my fault

For staying here with you

But I just couldn't leave

I didn't know what to do.

But now the answer's clear

In fact, I have no choice

But please, know if I leave here

Forever, I'll rejoice.

Monday:

It's Monday night. Again. 214 dollars hang limply from my left hand. I wait. Waiting is never good. It mean's harder hits, a demand for more money.

Pain.

My father was in the other room, watching some sort of sports game; cheering and swearing with a slurred voice. He'll come soon.

God, please, if you're up there, please make this game last forever. Please, please please!

The game didn't last forever.

In fact, all too soon I heard the click of the T.V, the squeeeaak of the chair, and the heavy, un-steady footsteps of my father.

"Where the eff is my money!" His voice scarred me, but I didn't move. I'd been trained. His hand taught me well.

No moving. No flinching. No speaking. No crying. No eye contact. And especially, NO RUNNING. Ever.

My father entered the foyer drunkenly, where I awaited his attack. He didn't come immediately; instead he stared at me, his eyes glazed over from the alcohol.

This was the test. He would wait for me to run. But I'll never run. Not ever again.

The broken plates from the last time I ran were never replaced. And the few pictures on the wall that fell down the last time before that were never put back up. The banister on the stairs was still broken from a long time ago. No, I'd never run, even though every muscle in my body was begging me, even though every part of my body ached, even though every part of m being cried out to me, needing me to go away and never look back.

Only will-power held me there, and only will-power lifted my shaky hand and offered the money to my father.

He snatched it. And without even counting it he threw it back at me.

"YOU WHORE!" He shrieked as the money rained down on me, cascading like a green waterfall.

Each bill fell silently, uncaring of my fate.

"HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO GET ENOUGH BOOS WITH THIS! YOU DIRTY NASTY LITTLE SLUT!" He lifted his hand, and everything paused.

My entire world was revolving around that hand.

Each finger had a meaning.

The palm had a purpose.

And that purpose was to burn me.

To crash into my face and scar me with its touch. To mark me with a bruise that would last for days.

The hand served its purpose.

I flew off the ground into the near-by wall. My head made a thump as it connected, and suddenly, all I could see was an advancing shadow through a bright white.

I didn't recover until the next blow came. I gasped; the air was quickly knocked out of me, feeling as if an anvil had just been placed on my stomach.

I struggled to get air as the next blow cut the top of my right arm. Another burning sensation instantly crept up my other arm and the onslaught continued.

I brought my arms up to shield my face and curled into a ball on the floor. Something I had learned from experience.

That didn't discourage my father; instead he started kicking at my face, trying to get passed the meager defense that was my arms.

"YOU STUPID SLUT!" he yelled with venom as he kicked remedially at my face. "YOU'RE A DIRTY PIECE OF S***!"

My head felt dizzy from the constant attacks, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware I was screaming, and yelling, begging, pleading, anything to stop the unbearable pain vibrating through my body and controlling my being.

It stopped as suddenly as it started. One second, I'm being kicked in the stomach, the next; my father is passed out drunk on the couch.

I waited until I knew he was 100% asleep, before I crept back upstairs into my room. Every step hurt, and only the promise of a bed got me moving.

I entered my room and fell onto my bed, not bothering to change clothes.

The tears still stained my cheeks as I attempted to fall asleep. I closed my eyes and thanked God, it was over.

But I knew it would come again, just like it always did

Every Monday Night.