creaking part one

She always heard the noises first.  There was always a warning, some kind of signal she was constantly listening for.  Sometimes it was the slamming of a car door or the sound of keys in the lock of the front door.  But more often than not it was the creaking.  Creaking of footsteps coming up the stairs.  The ancient wooden stairs, with the nails protruding from the old boards, constantly creaking underneath whatever kind of weight was placed on them.  1

Sometimes the footsteps were soft, as if he were going to sneak up on his prey, take her by surprise.  But mostly they were quick, angry, loud noises.  His feet would thunder up the stairs to get to her, not worrying about waking her from her sleep.  He was drunk usually, having just come home from the bar on 5th.  For years she had been able to identify what exactly it was he had been drinking by his hot breath on her face as he shook her from her pretend sleep.  “Whiskey tonight, huh Dad?” she’d think to herself.  Even after all these years, she wondered why it was he drank.  It wasn’t as though the beatings were any less painful when he was sober.  In fact it was worse when he was sober.  Those were the nights he’d come creeping into her bedroom, and she’d wake only moments before he grabbed her, giving her no time to dive into the world she had created for herself, her place to escape from the pain he routinely inflicted on her.2

In the beginning she had tried to find reasons for the abuse.  She blamed herself mostly.  Dinner wasn’t cooked exactly the way he demanded it, the house wasn’t spotless, she had missed places.  She was careless.  She was stupid.  She was ungrateful.  She deserved this.  Later, when she went to bed, she’d pray to God to make her a better daughter, so that Daddy would stop hurting her.  She’d given up on God a long time ago.  Apparently He wasn’t listening.3

Later she discovered, it didn’t matter what she did, he would never be satisfied.  Eventually he didn’t even tell her why he was slapping her, kicking her, he’d just grab her and his belt and start in again.  By the time she was 10, she had learned how to go inside herself, to numb the sting of his hands on her face, to subdue the force of his kicks into her small, frail form.  She could hide the pain, deny it even existed.4

Running away was not an option.  You got caught if you ran away.  That’s what the police were for.  The problem with running is she had no place to go.  And with her father as chief of police in their small town, she was caught before she got very far.  There were consequences for running away.  She only had to experience the torture once before she was resolved to never try it again.  That was the worst night of her life.  At the station, sitting in her father’s office, watching him thank officer Martin, the one who found her, for, “bringing my little angel back to me,” she shook so hard her teeth rattled in her head.  He was silent on the drive home, something she’d found from years of experience was never a good sign5

She knew better than to try and run away twice.  Upon entering the house, he slammed the door shut, picked her up by her skinny arms and threw her against the door.6

“How could you!” he screamed at her, his face turning that dangerous red color that meant he’d lost his temper. “You ungrateful, horrible, ugly little bitch!” he flung insults at her, this was nothing new.  “Who do you think you are you brat!”  In came the first slap.  He’d put his whole weight behind it, and her cheek went from hard stinging pain to numbness as she slid to the floor and tried to curl into a ball.7

“Don’t you dare try and get away from me!” She was a helpless lump, shaking with fear, knowing what was coming.  He still had his boots on, and with them he began to kick her, screaming obscenities.  He landed one right in the middle of her stomach, which made her wretch. “Now look at the floor you piece of shit!  You’re making a mess on my floor!  You ungrateful bitch!  After all I’ve done for you, this is how you pay me back?  By running away and fucking puking on my floor!”  This only gave him more ammunition to use against her, as he began to kick her viciously, without mercy.8

“Please stop Daddy, please.  I’m sorry I’ll never run away from home again.”  She whimpered pitifully, already knowing her cries would be in vain.  Over and over again he kicked her, finally picking her up by the hair and screaming at her, slapping her as hard as he could.  “Please Daddy, please stop….” Her voice trailed off as tears ran down her cheek 9

“Oh, I’ll make sure you never run away again you little shit!  You think this hurts, just wait.  If you ever think about running away again I’ll kill you!  I swear to God I’ll fucking kill you!” and with that he heaved one last kick at her head, shattering her jaw.10

Slowly he backed away, spitting on her pitiful form as he turned toward the kitchen to get a beer.11

She lay there in agony for hours until he dragged her to her feet and drove her to the emergency room.  12

“She fell down the stairs, poor kid,” he told the emergency room physician.   The doctor looked at him questioningly, but just jotted down words on his form and proceeded about his rounds.13

Her recovery from her injuries took several weeks, and during that time, fearful of arousing suspicion she was sure, he refrained from his usual form of torture. Although, the verbal abuse was much worse, it was at least nice to know it brought none of the physical pain with it.14

It was that night that she had resolved to do it.  She knew, somehow that he would kill her, eventually he’d completely lose control and do to her what he had been threatening since she was five years old. 15