The Way Out

I came to school today with a blooming black eye, courtesy of my father.1

Not that I'd ever tell anyone that, of course. Like hell. The last thing we need is my father being hauled off to jail, and my sisters and brothers split up into foster care. Our family's been destroyed too many times already. A mother dead to Leukemia, six kids, and an alcoholic father? We have enough problems.2

When I was five, I realized that my father was different to my friends'. Their fathers went to work, came home, sat down to dinner with them and tucked them into bed. My father got out of bed at about nine o'clock, yelled at my mother to "get me a bloody beer" and sat in front of the TV all day, getting steadily drunker. By the time the six o'clock news was on, he'd be yelling at me to shut up if I whispered something to my mum, and swearing nonstop.3

Once, when I was six, my mother tried to leave him. He barricaded her, plus us kids, in the bathroom, and went to find his rifle. My mother fled the house, but her father made her go back to him.4

I was nine when the physical abuse started. I came home from a friend's house one day, and said to my dad that her father was nicer than he was. He picked me up and threw me against the wall. The next day in school, when we were getting changed for swimming, I told my teacher I'd fallen off my bike.5

I'm not sure why I lied. I think that, even at nine, I realized that the way my father acted wasn't normal. But even though I hated what he'd done to me, I didn't hate him. No matter what he did to me, he was still my father.6

Physical abuse I can handle. But when I was twelve, the insults started. And those weren't so easy to ignore.7

"Get me a beer, bitch."8

"You fat cow, stop stuffing your face."9

There was only one thing stopping me from walking out. If I left, he'd start on someone else instead - probably one of my sisters. And although I hated the way he made me feel, I know I would feel a hundred times worse if he started in on Michayla, who was 10 at the time, or Angela, who was 8.10

After my mother died, I was afraid for my life. But I needn't have been - he needed a slave. Someone to wait on him hand and foot. Lucky me.11

I've been putting up with the comments for three years now. And the only thing that keeps me going is the fact that in three years, I can spit in his face and tell him to go to hell, then walk out forever.12

But I want a way out now. Once, I contemplated suicide. But I wouldn't let him have the satisfaction of knowing he'd pushed me over the edge. But Death seems to be the only way out… at least until I'm eighteen.13

Today, though… today really threw me. The stares I got really frightened me. I was sure that the secret I had carried most of my life was shining through the bruise surrounding my left eye. My English teacher asked me how I'd got it, and I told him frostily that I had gotten into a fight. He seemed to accept that. But I'm sick of it. I shouldn't have to lie to my friends. I have to fight back.14

And now I'm walking in the door, ready to face my father. He hears me come in.15

"Get me a bloody beer."16

I've had enough of it. "Screw you," I say.17

He can't believe his ears. He gets slowly up out of his chair.18

"What did you say to me?"19

Oh, God, I'm scared. This was a bad idea. Maybe I should just apologize. Then again, who will do it if I won't?20

"I said, screw you."21

He loses it. He picks me up, and slams me forcefully into the wall. I feel something crack, and I drop to the floor.22

He hits me, over and over and over. I can feel the blood pounding in my head. My stomach is all over bruises, and I don't even want to see my face. Then, suddenly, there's another feeling. Suddenly, I'm free from the pain… it's like I'm watching my body, and my father hitting it, from the ceiling.23

And suddenly, I realize that there is another way out. Not suicide, but Death all the same. My father has hit me one time too many, I think, as my spirit leaves this world forever. I have found my way out.24