Breaking Point

You know he'll be back. 1

He always is. 2

So you don't bother moving, just stay curled up with your knees to your chest as your face revolts because of the cold, dusty floor. You wish you could say all this was a new experience; that it was the first time, but even you, as practised at lying to yourself as you are, can't believe that one. 3

So you stay still and try to ignore the pain creeping its way from your back around your ribs and up to your shoulders and the second heartbeat you have pounding in your head. You tell yourself the burning, aching sensation that's nearly taking away your ability to think, move, breathe, hell even live, is all in your imagination. 4

But that one's a little to big to believe as well, so you decide you're content to just lie on the ground, staring at the blood that pooled beside you at some point. 5

Waiting. 6

Always waiting. 7

You try to remember the last time you were happy and safe. The last time you didn't have bruises peppering your ribs and back. And for a moment you've forgotten.Trying to ignore exactly how pathetic and miserable that is, you search your foggy brain for the well played clip. 8

It was a crisp but clear Autumn day five years ago. One lone cloud marred the otherwise perfect sky and the sunlight streamed down through the wilting leaves to form dappled shadows on the green ground. In the middle of the forest clearing, a picnic basket sat on the red and white rug and a girl (nine years old, fills in your memory) was bouncing up and down excitedly, pigtails dancing in mutual agreement and smile stretching across her lightly freckled face, as her parents shared a secret smile at their daughters antics. 9

You had been out there for your ninth birthday, you remember. Enthralled by such amazing activities as kite flying and hopscotch and filled with wonderfully fresh cookies, homemade lemonade and a zeal for life, the day had been absolutely perfect. You hazily recall naming it the best day of your life, although a nine year old often has one such day monthly, so the accolate wasn't that exclusive. 10

It's one downpoint? Your mother had a doctors appointment in the early afternoon. So after lunch the car was packed and you were buckled in the back, on your way into town. If you had known what awaited you, you'd have demanded your father turn the car around and never leave the magic of the forest glade.11

But life hadn't equipt you with the foresight and wisdom to see that if everything was perfect then something major was about to go wrong. 12

They hadn't told you at first. There had just been a lot of crying, and they'd gone out a lot. But then on that fateful Friday afternoon, they finally sat you down and explained that your mom had leukemia, and there was nothing the doctors could do. You watched your dad fall apart that day. Watched his heart break into tiny little pieces that pierced the inside of his chest. 13

He'd lost one person: the love of his life. But you'd lost two. 14

After her funeral, you'd asked him about heaven. He'd frozen and looked back at you. Hatred and pain filled his haunted glare, and with frightening speed he'd pulled his hand back and swung it at your cheek with a resounding slap. 15

'Don't you ever speak about you're mother again!'16

You'd brought one trembling hand to your burning cheek and stared at him through shock filled eyes from behind a curtain of tears, confusion burned into your features. 17

He'd sneered and walked away.18

That's how it started. Then he'd turned to the bottle, cheap whiskey and scotch deepening his loss and magnifying his anger. You'd become little more than his punching bag: a useful tool for getting rid of his anger, that could be left to fend for itself when he wasn't burying his fists in it. 19

Uneven footsteps dragged you out of the inevitably worsening movie of your life and back to the present horrible, but not unusual, situation. 20

You feebly spit out the blood pooling in your mouth, letting it join the rest of the red liquid sitting on the tiles. Strong hands grabbed your shoulders in an iron grip and roughly pulled you into a position that somewhat resembled standing, but also held connections with 'unsteady on feet to a degree that falling is probably quite eminent'.21

You'd been dreading this day for the past month. Your birthday. The day she was diagnosed. The day his heart began breaking and turning him into the haunted monster that could hit his own daughter. 22

You were actually surprised he was still standing, considering the number of empty bottles that littered the living room. He stared at you openly, steel grip still on your shoulder. 23

“She didn't deserve to die.” Anger punctuated his words, and his eyes promised his barely kept rage would soon be unleashed. “You should have saved her!”24

In a last ditch effort, the doctors had explained to him that a bone marrow transplant might save her, if only they could find someone with a close enough match. The database held no hope; she was too far down the list and had a rare bloodtype, but you were a near perfect match. A few painful procedures later, your mum had new marrow, and you finally had some hope. 25

9:33 pm, exactly four months after your birthday, she died. The doctors held no explinations as to why she had rejected the marrow, but your dad had immediately blamed you. 26

His first punch took you by suprise. His knuckles bored into your cheeckbone and inertia sent you flying into the cabinet behind you. Bringing one hand up in a useless effort to defend youself, you curled your shoudlers and back in an instinctive effort to shield your ribs and kidneys from the onslaught of punches and slaps that were raining down on you. You closed your eyes in shame. Not again.27

Soon, you lay on the floor again, your dads boots slamming your back and shoulder. Idly you try to think back to when you ended up back down here again, but the memory is buried beneath a mound of others; most containing fists, feet and pain. You're beginning to get worried: usually he stops before now, but he isn't even slowing down. You scare yourself by thinking that maybe that's not a bad thing. 28

Blow after blow rains down on your bruised body; some drawing blood as the leather and laces on his shoes scrape across your bare skin and others just leaving a jolt of agonising pain in their memory. You've given up trying to catalogue what hurts and what doesn't, though you do know that the first list is a lot longer than the second. 29

Darkness is starting to blur the edges of your vision, unshed tears smudging the rest and you can feel the liquidy coat of blood that's shining in the harsh light. The sound of rattling metal reaches your ears, and for one heartstopping moment you think he's going to...do...that. Rape. The word sounds dirty and cheap, even inside your own head, and you try to tell yourself there's no way he could do it. I mean, you're his daughter. But a little voice in your head whispers that you never thought he'd hit your either. The shocking sensation of leather of the bare skin of your shoulder interrupts your thoughts and you realise, with a mixture of relief and anger, that it was just the belt he wanted. 30

With a wince you feel the pale welt begin forming on your skin. Unconsciously you whimper, and one tear rolls down your bruised skin. God, this hurts. 31

He hits you again, this time across the back of your neck, and you fight back the urge to throw up, silently demanding your stomach to behave. The last belt blow falls on the inch of skin that's been exposed by your outstretched arms, a few centimeters above your waist. 32

He hauls you up again, and as the big finish, his curtain call, he smashes his bruised fist into your even more bruised face one last time, sending you careening back towards the counter again. Your head falls back against the stone top and for a moment you're completely stunned, as blood begins trickling down the back of your neck. Then the pounding pain begins and you fall to the floor. 33

He pulls your face up, so it is level with his.34

“Get this mess cleaned up.”35

He staggers over to the fridge and pulls out a six-pack before making his way back to the lounge room for the start of the Red Sox game. 36

You're not sure how long you lie on the floor, cheek soaked with your own blood, but as you try to move your head, you decide it wasn't long enough. The pain flares up, and your vision spins violently. Moaning slightly, you use the cabinet to pull yourself up. The stairs prove a hurdle on your quest to the bathroom, but you manage to make it up, noticing on the way that your dad has passed out on the couch. 37

In the shower, you make the water hot, enjoying the feel of the watery needles piercing your body, washing away the humiliation and indignaty. He tells you that you're worthless. You're nobody, and thats how you stay. At first you didn't believe him, but now you realise that you do.38

He's right.39

Nobody cares; well, at least not enough to notice. You have a few friends at school. Hayley and Sarah have been you're 'best friends' since sixth grade, and Cassie joined the club in seventh. Matt transferred from Oregon a few years ago, taking the position of 'best friend that everyone can see should be boyfriend'. 40

Sometimes he stares at you with a pensive, concerned look on his face, and your heart jumps in fear and elation: he knows! But he never says anything and you go home to daddy dearest once again. 41

You're fathers words repeat themselves in your mind in rhythm with the water. 42

Worthless. Nobody. Stupid. Worthless. Nobody. Stupid. 43

They are still rolling around you're mind when you make it back to your room, bandages in hand. You begin the tried and true practice of wrapping your wounds, working to the beat. 44

Worthless. Nobody. Stupid. Worthless. Nobody. Stupid.45

You slam a fist down on your desk and try to stop thinking about it. You've learnt that denial definitely has more uses than providing Egypt with water. 46

On impulse, you grab out a pen and paper. Words flow from your mind, through the tool and onto the canvas. When you realise what you're doing, you grimace and scrunch up the sheet, throwing it basketball style into the bin on the other side of the room. The whole writing down your feelings thing isn't your style. It's such a pathetic, TV like action. Like it'll ever help anyway.47

Your dad's angry voice echoes through the silent house, and your heart races as your breath hitches. You hurry out of the room, leaving the paper where it is. As your dad's raised voice echoes through the hallway, you think back to the words on the paper with a sigh. And realise you were a little to close to the painful truth with those verses, even if they were just in second person. You tune out to your dad's voice and think back to the loopy ink letters on the scrap of paper.48

Breaking Point49

Sometimes it hurts so bad you wonder if it will ever end;
You wonder if tomorrow will ever come.
If maybe, just maybe, it might be better.
And you tell yourself it has to be,
Because nothing could be worse than today.50

Still, an annoying little voice in your head whispers:
'It isn't possible to survive this,
That just wouldn't be fair.
There is no light at the end of the tunnel,
Just pitch dark all consuming black.'51

But you ignore it.
And remind yourself:
Tomorrow you will smile again, and everything will be good.
And damned if sometimes the lie hurts more than the truth.52

You wish someone would notice.
That someone, anyone, would finally see!
See that you are dying piece by piece inside:
That your smile isn't quite right;
That your laugh is a little off.
You wish that they would hear you.
But they don't,
Because really, you're invisible.53

You're in the middle of a crowd.
And you swear you're screaming:
“Help! I'm breaking!”
“I need you! Please fix me!”
But everyone goes on with their lives.
And the world continues a little to easily without you.54

Leaving you behind with your pain, wishing for the numbness;
All the while cursing how damn human you are.
And even those who are closest to you,
Are overwhealmed by your silence.
They don't hear anything,
Because they're not really listening.55

It hurts so bad, you wish no-one was there,
So you could just break in the open.
They don't see it anyway, you think bitterly.
And your mask is starting to slip.
But you don't want to expose to the world how weak and broken and fragile you really are;
Even though now, thats all you've become.
Because you hold onto the scrap of dignity you still have,
And figure they wouldn't care anyway.
And even as you say it,
You hate that he's getting to you.56

So you pretend you're fine.
That you've gotten over your mom,
And love your dad.
That everything is fine.
But it isn't.57

You silently wish someone would rescue you:
Ride in on their noble white horse,
And take you away.
Teach you how to smile again;
How to be happy.
Because you aren't sure how much longer you can take it:
It can't be long before you break.58

And it's worse because you know nobody is coming:
That the horse is asleep in it's stable,
And the knight is safe is his castle.59

Because nobody sees that you're breaking:
Slowly; painfully; piece by piece.
Crying and screaming and yelling for help,
But alone and silent in the crowd.60

So all you can do is promise yourself:
'Tomorrow will be better',
And try desperately to believe it.