Chapter 3 : this is my story (2)

MC pov

I tried opening my eyes; it was painful. Everything hurt. It seems that after getting knocked out by the flying beer bottle, my so-called father tried to wake me up by kicking and punching my unconscious body, but I guess I was so out of it that he got bored and saw that it had achieved nothing, not even satisfying his sadistic tendencies, and gave up, picked up his half-spilled beer bottle, and went back to the couch to continue watching his football game while leaving me bleeding on the floor from the gush on my forehead.

I tried to stand up, but I couldn't move; I only felt pain. My mind was dizzy; I couldn't remember what I did today. And then I heard him.

'' Are you awake, you piece of shit? Hurry up and stand up; you need to buy me more beers and something to eat. Hurry up and get the fuck up.''

I looked around me; I was surrounded by beer bottles. It seems he kept throwing empty bottles at me. I am guessing he was trying to wake me up so I could go and buy him more beer, not checking if I was alive. A part of me wished he threw bottles at me in the hopes that somehow inside him a part still cared about my well-being, but I guess that's wishful thinking. The only value I have is as a cook, cleaner, and housekeeper. I held down my tears, swallowed the lump in my throat, and stood up shaking.

'' Use the money you made today and get the fuck out of my face'' , he said as he lit up another cigarette.

I went to the bathroom to wash up my face and remove any traces of blood from my body, then I went to my room, if you can call it that. It was just a broom closet with a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling,a mattress on the floor, and a few shelves that were used to put the meager amounts of personal stuff I had: some worn-out clothes, used books, broken toys that I tried to fix, trinkets from the dump, electronics I found in the garbage or in the street that I tried to dismantle and repair with some luck. 

My dream was to one day grow up, leave this hellish place, and pursue my dream of becoming an engineer. I was always smart, lying to the cops about what you were doing takes some inguinity. Beinng smart also helped me in fixing broken things as it made me feel better about myself. I dropped my bag on the floor, took out the parts I collected today from my bag, and put them on the shelf. 

' Today I might be able to repair some of them; I'll probably make some money out of it ' I thought to myself.

I took my empty bag and headed to the door, trying to make as little noise as possible and avoid all the creeky floorboards because I definitely could not survive another beating.

As I reached the door, I heard him say,

'' Don't forget to buy me some cigarette packs with that money you got hiding in your damn sock ''

I froze while looking at him, clenching my fists. That was my hard-earned money! That money was my ticket out of here! I worked so hard for every cent of it! It's my fault; I should have hidden it in my usual place, but I was just so tired.

'' why the fuck do you keep looking at me for? Hurry up and get going!! That money is your motherfuckin rent! Do you think I let you live under my roof for free?? Now get the fuck out, you ungrateful bastard! ''

I ran out of the door while biting down my tongue to stop all the vile things I wanted to shout to his face: how he is only a useless drunk; how he is a jobless asshole who only has a roof over his head because of the disability checks he gets from the city; how the world would be a better place without him in it.

But I knew I couldn't; I could only hold on and wait. Wait for my freedom. While leaning on the door, I could still hear him ranting about me, calling me the crack child of a crack whore who went and got killed and lost him his other source of income. I guess having a wife for a hooker kind of makes you resent the kid, not knowing if it's yours or not.

Isn't that laughable? What kind of man pimps out his wife and keeps the money she makes? And what kind of woman stays with a man like him for years, lives through all that abuse, and still comes back at the end of every day? A crack whore, that's who. And then the bitch went out and got killed by that one deranged serial killer targeting hookers a couple of years ago.

I didn't even shed a tear when I read the article in a newspaper; it didn't even make the front page. Who cares about another dead hooker? Everyone just thinks good riddance.

You might think that at least one of my progenitors would care about me, but you would be mistaken. She practically ignored me when she was high or during those rare moments of sobriety between shots of heroin.

She didn't care when I was getting beaten and locked for hours in my so-called room. She can only smile, looking dazed.