The girl

The girl sat on the hard floorboards in the lounge room of the apartment, playing with an old doll that she had found behind the couch. Her skinny legs sprawled out in front of her and her little five year old hands gently stroked the doll’s tattered cloth dress. She had abandoned the doll in the corner a week before when she had been playing. The girl could remember hearing her parent’s raised voices and the harsh crack of her father’s fist as it made contact with her mother’s face. Blocking her ears with her small fingers and humming softly to herself, she had continued to play, hoping her mummy and daddy would stop soon. But, the screaming went on and on, repeating its self like a broken record. The girl cringed and curled herself into a tight ball, covering her head with her arms.

Thud!

Her mother fell to the ground.

“You stupid bitch!”

The girl flinched and held the doll tighter.

Crack!

Thump!

Smash!

Her mother’s shrill shriek echoed from the next room. The tinkle of shattered glass falling filled the girl’s ears and a half empty bottle of vodka rolled to a halt at her feet. The girl cowered further away and began to rock herself slowly back and forth. By the time it was over, she had fallen into a troubled and restless slumber, hunched in the dark corner behind the couch, cold, scared and alone.

As the girl sat there now, the dirty wooden floorboards coating her clothing and fingers with dust, she tried to understand what had happened. Her five year old mind recalled her father’s thundering footsteps as he stalked through the small apartment, throwing garments of clothing and blankets into a worn overnight bag. She could still smell the stale, bitter stench of alcohol as he leaned in to kiss her roughly on the cheek before he left, slamming the front door closed violently behind him. That was the last time the girl saw her father.

She rose to her feet and tip toed timidly towards the kitchen. The girl hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days because she had been too scared to approach her mother and say that she was hungry. She peered around the door way and caught a glimpse of her hunched over the table with one of her father’s bottles in her hand. Her mother’s hair was unwashed and greasy, falling across her face which was rested limply on the table. The girl had never seen her mother like this. She was supposed to be the strong one, the one to hold her and make everything better when her father got mad...

(Not finished yet...need to find a way to end it...any ideas??)