The Rekindling Hope
All that I can remember was the nauseating stench that lingered through the room as I pancaked onto the unaligned brick floor. I wake up every single time with a sense of what happened before I time after time get pushed to the ground.
“Wait, I know that smell,” I remember. This unsatisfactory funky odor was from the previously sprayed mist that settled in my father’s cologne bottle. My father is in the corner polishing his rifle as he cues his signature snicker.
“Get up you coward,” He chips in while strutting his stubby limbs over towards my direction. My father swings his rifle right up until it was right before my eyes. He only lightly impresses my head with the chamber which always sparks my memory of what has happened in advance to my everyday knock out. Whenever he pours alcohol down his fat throat, my father will strike me with whatever he can get his hands on. I examine the new wounds that have already developed onto my previously damaged skull as I look into the dark and smoke-stained reflective surface. Ever since my mother passed away, he takes all of these liberties to hurt and ridicule me. She is gone because of him, and I’m just the next victim on his perpetuate list.
“Ashley, hold down the fort for a little bit!” My father belches out from what sounds like the kitchen. I listen to his exaggerated movements and quick rummaging until I finally processed what he had just blurted out.
“Wait!” I snivel back after every single time he says that. The only things we say to each other are like a typed script that we have memorized ever since I was just able to talk. This random departure happens at least twice a month where I get left behind, days on end, without any survival substances, or any sense of comfort. I usually wouldn’t mind being left alone besides the fact that this time there isn’t any food stored in the cabinets, no trace of anything chilling in the fridge, and not even a crumb of leftovers wedged into the freezer. I look through the dark stained blinds that keep away any source of light from radiating into the apartment. All I can pick up from my untreated 20/50 vision was my father getting into a ratty old car driven by some dropout whore that always picks him up.
“That’s it!!! I am done with this!” I yelp but not loud enough that the driving away car could hear me. I maneuver my way through the old, body odor smelling, and simply disgusting combination of clothes and food that were rotting on every square inch of the apartments floor. I make it to the front door where I decidingly bolt to my neighbors house, cofessing my whole life story. This is it. My life is dramatically altering with every second that my neighbor is frantically talking on the phone. Three men pound heavily on the gold plated double doors as I hold myself steady on the couch. Mrs. Conrad opens the door to hear a heavy ethnic man say, “Is Ashley Davis here?”