I kick the gravel and stare at the ground as I walk toward my house. I take one step, then another, and another. Now I’m standing in front of the porch, and my mind starts to think at an unnatural pace..
I’m going to be in so much trouble, and I know it. Oh, I know it too well. Deep breath, deep breath. I can do this, I can do this. No fear. Don’t be a coward, Liz, you can’t run away. Maybe I can... I mean, I’ve thought about it before. It could be possible. But all my clothes are in the house, darn it. He might not be home. Oh yeah, he’s home, car’s in the driveway. Maybe he’s sleeping...No, he’s not, of course he’s not, he never goes to bed this early. You’re being stupid, Liz. It’s not that bad, you’re making a big deal out of nothing. You have to face the music. Face the music of a symphony playing the death march. Just don’t think about it. You’re gonna stand out here all night if you think about it too much. I’m pacing now. And even with my favourite black hoodie on, I’m still cold. Just get it over with.
And with that, I’m up the porch steps and through the door. As soon as I’m in the house, I switch over to my stealth mode. Carefully slide my Converse shoes off my feet and place them on the shoe rack. Pull down my hoodie’s hood low over my face(hoodie’s hood, that sounds so weird in my head). Slip carefully through the front hall, through the living room. Don’t look to the right or the left, just straight ahead. I’m part way up the stairs before I hear him. “Elizabeth! Get back here.” Through the tone of his voice, I know my fears are confirmed.
I slowly walk back down the stairs, and turn toward the coach. I see my dad sitting there, quietly (for now). Arms folded, face grim. “Dad, hey.” I say breezily, though my voice is shaking. “Elizabeth, take off your hood, I can’t see your face with that darned thing pulled down so low.” His voice is rising, and I know he’s on the edge. I casually tug off my hood, and glance at the floor. “Elizabeth. What did you do?” I hate the way he always repeats my full name when he’s getting angry. It annoys the heck out of me. I wanna say something defiant or clever like “Dad, isn’t it obvious? I dyed my hair black, genius. You like?” But instead all I do is mumble “Sorry.” without looking at him.
And it begins. He yells at me, loudly, of course, the level of his voice escalating each time. Why did you do a stupid thing like dye your hair. It’s pointless. Why did you ignore my calls and texts, and stay out late after school without telling me. Why this, why that. You’re horrible, you’re a pig, you’re stupid, and some words I’d rather not repeat. With each sentence he steps closer, and each expression gets more enraged by the second. By now he’s punctuating each bellow with a slap, or a punch. They aren’t that hard, but it’s still scary. Soon my dad starts winding down and eventually, he just points upstairs and says quietly “Get to your room, Elizabeth. You’re an idiot for doing this kind of stuff, Elizabeth, you know you’re gonna end up in real trouble some day.”
I stand there for a few seconds, feeling absolutely defeated. And then I just sigh, and walk upstairs, still trembling from the barrage of insults and slaps. I find my bed, and just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I deserved it, I dunno. My mom’s going to be upset too, but not in the way that he is. That he always is. I mean, maybe this time I had it coming.
But most of the time, he’s way worse, for much less of an offense. And sometimes, he goes ballistic over some nonexistent problem, like me not straightening the towel properly on the rack, or not pushing in a chair. Why me? Why do I have to deal with this all the time? The constant fear, always tiptoeing around him, always adhering to his every little want and need. Other people are surprised at how polite I can be, how careful I am that I don’t make anyone mad. That’s all thanks to my wonderful daddy. I feel so hopeless, so bitter. with a good right to be. Oh, I’m so tired. I fall back against my pillow, and try my best not to cry. And that’s another thing. He always yells at us when we cry. It’s basically reflex, trying not to cry. Ugh, I’m so tired of thinking about it. Maybe I should just fall asleep and forget about it. Until tomorrow at least. I don’t bother turning the lights off, or climbing into my pajamas, just nestle into my comforter and try and get some sleep.