Sharp Edges - Chapter one

Silently, like a grave, she sat. Looking around the grim room, she pondered. Was this life of hers meaningful?1

The clock ticked away as time pasted her by, but she sat and she looked and she pondered. She lived. 2

A single, dying lightbulb swayed with the nonexisting wind. It hung heavily and low from a thin, rusting chain that was poorly attached to the tenement ceiling.3

Her mother had “kicked rocks,” so to speak. Of course Jen knew exactly where she was. Probably high off weed, drinking and stumbling her way down some alleyway with a total stranger, who would only be waiting to score. 4

It did not matter to her anymore though, nothing really mattered to her anymore. 5

Like that guy said in a movie, she saw once, life IS like a box of chocolates. Only her box fell into a muddy puddle and had to be thrown away, shipped off to some garbage bar far away from reality. 6

A chill found its way up her spine and, somehow, into her mind. 7

This hell hole was not what she wanted, nor deserved. She had always been willing to believe that her life was special and that she was somehow supposed to survive through all of this, all of her days. 8

Her eyes found their way over to the filthy mattress lying on the floor, covered in a blob, which turned out to be her father. At least that is what she had to call him, father.9

She closed her eyes tightly, trying her best to hold in the memories of the good old days when she was able to look him in the face without fear or shame or both. Still all she pictured was the alcoholic. The unshaven, unworthy, unforgiving, family beating wreck that was now sprawled out on the floor. 10

Her hand tranquilly slipped beneath her smudged shirt sleeve. The bleeding had subsided, but the welts still remained. She felt slightly further up her arm. Her fingertips ran overtop scars and even small dips in her flesh, from past cuttings.11

It had almost become a daily ritual, cutting. An event that is seen by some as a life saving way to express pain, while it turned others away, against you. For her, it was the only hobby she could afford. On many occasions, she found it quite rewarding. Nevertheless, it was a part of her and a piece of her life. Even if she were to stop now, the scars and relief that it brought would forever be with her. 12

A grunt called from the corner, her father was escaping from his nightly drunken coma. 13

Jen crawled from atop the single-sized bed and onto the floor where she belonged. If she were to be caught sitting upon her father’s bed, he would beat her to a miserable amount.14

Not that it would make any difference, he always hit her. He hit her mother too and then he would rape her. Sometimes, if her mother was not enough or just too much of a burden, he would turn to Jen for pleasure. He would touch and grope her in the harshest of ways. 15

He hardly did that after her “miscarriage,” but sometimes he just couldn’t help it. Besides, he couldn’t risk the embarrassment of producing his own grandchild. 16

He was a monster, her father. She didn’t know why or when he became that way, but he had. 17

They used to laugh together, play together, live in a somewhat peaceful world. That is until she turned six, then it all went wrong. First, it was that glaring blaze he got when he drank. Next, the rough pushing and shoving, the name calling. Then, after she thought the worst was over, came the beatings. They could never guess when the next one would be, but they knew it was coming and that’s all they needed to know. 18

The funny thing is, when they go into town, he is nice to everyone else. He’s so very polite with his bowing and hand shaking. His flirtatious door holding. He even helped an older couple carry their groceries across the pike. It truly amazed her, how one man could be so different on the streets and in the home. To anybody else, he was an award winning father. 19

If only they knew. 20

Jen lied down on a tangled blanket by the door. She would have to clean the house tomorrow because her mother would not be back and her father did not want anyone to see the blood spatters on the wall. Not that it mattered. He was the only one with real friends and even they never came over. Even they were oblivious to the truth of their oh-so-dear pal, Trent. 21

She shut her eyes and hoped for pleasant dreams. The last thing she heard was her father’s footsteps, heading for the door.