Chapter 5- Not Edited

My dad had just started his late night escapades to the bar. He used to go occasionally for "work dinners". Then it would be longer and longer hours and he wouldn't come home until Dustin was already in bed. He would be too drunk to walk in a straight line. This was at the time in my life where my only fear when he was drinking was that he would hurt himself by being a risky and sloppy drunk and maybe flirting with a waitress or two. Then, after everything had changed, and he started blaming me as the cause of ALL his problems... it turned into a desperate need of wanting him to be sober but then it got to the point where I was wishing he would drink himself out of our lives.

My mom was in the kitchen waiting to greet him when he got home, not expecting the start of years of abuse. Dustin was already in bed but my mom had Life360 so she could actually get a reasonable time instead of waiting around for hours for him to not show until 8 PM. He raised his hand to her and she flinched in anticipation. Her body knew even when her mind didn't want to believe it was true. Continuously getting more and more brutal from the glimpses of a little girl hiding around the corner. As an eleven year old girl, I didn't know that what he did was wrong. That there was an actual severity to the situation we had just entered. A life we were simply introduced to because the alcohol flowing through his veins were stronger in my father than his own blood. As I ventured on into middle school, I soon found out that this wasn't a normal family. I had learned that daddy hitting mommy wasn't standardized. That you weren't supposed to be afraid of your dad. That he wasn't supposed to put his hands on mommy. That other people didn't have to replace their bedroom door lock every month when daddy got bored of hitting mommy. Once I learned all of that, everything changed. I changed. I had to change to survive.

I started preparing for the day when I would be able to fight back. I had to bulk. I got so determined to help my mom who I saw as a saint at the time. Even as I was dealing with the adjustments of just starting middle school, I would work out. It all started with just doing some small ab workouts and core. Sneaking into the high school gym to use the punching bag. Then as a freshman and getting full access to the gym and weight room without anyone trying to tell me I couldn't. That is also how I got involved football. The big upperclassman saw me benching around the same time they were all in the weight room. They didn't see me as a weak little girl freshman. They saw potential that I could never thank them enough for jumping on. They convinced me to train with them: probably feeling a little bad that I didn't even have a friend to spot me. Little did they know that the small girl who they saw working out would become one of them shortly after.

I was 13 and a freshman in high school when I was finally got big enough and confident enough to take on the monster. Then, one day, not long after that: I simply snapped. He had raised his hand for the last time to my mother. Dustin was already in bed and asleep. We always managed to save him from even witnessing the brutality of his father. Part of me had always hoped he was oblivious. It was a pipe dream. He stumbled through the doorway, barely missing the door not opening far enough like a drunken sailor. The smell of alcohol lingered on him as if someone had dumped a gallon of vodka on him and let him soak overnight. He was yelling at my mother, her attempts to keep the storm away were no use in his unstable state. She tried to hush him, to appease him, not wanting to wake my baby brother sleeping soundlessly upstairs unaware of the dangers he lived amongst. She thought being gentle to the beast would get her somewhere. Yet, had it ever worked before? The short answer was definitely not. I gave in, the temptation to intervene stronger than it had ever been. I stepped in front of my mother protectively. I was shielding her from the wrath she had been handling alone for years. He would never touch her again. Not while there was still air in my lungs. I was young. I could handle it better than she could. I had trained enough to handle the physical beatdown I knew would come. His eyes held momentary surprise, which quickly transitioned to pure anger.

"Move out of my way Bi***," he growled. When I didn't immediately do as he said, he punched me in the gut with my mom gasping and wailing in the background.

"Mom go, now. I can handle him now. I'm old enough to protect you." I demanded. I was ready for his advances, though. I stepped on his foot in retaliation. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me to the nearest wall. He started beating me, his punches landing wherever there was open space. I fought back, kicking and moving my fists to protect myself and attack when I could. I managed to get the upper hand when my foot conveniently hit his lower region. He groaned in pain.

I didn't stop there. The adrenaline I felt was just starting to kick in. I punched, kicked, and punched some more. He laid there, weak for the first time in his life. He was defenseless, yet I continued.

My brother had come downstairs by now, and he watched with horror in his eyes as I repetitively hit him. That was enough to bring me back to my senses. I immediately stopped, but the damage to my poor brother was done. He had just watched his only sister relentlessly beat his dad. He ran to his room, fear and disgust in his teary orbs.

The police, like every other time, weren't involved. If they would have been, too many questions were asked, I probably would have gotten in trouble for beating someone. Even if it was self-defense, he would have gotten one of the best lawyers. And my mom wasn't strong enough to face the police, the lawyers, or fight her husband. She bandaged up the first of many wounds for me, her own wounds like she was used to, and the guy who lay, out of it, at the bottom of the stairs.

When it got to the next day, I got it worse. He made up for the lack of fight yesterday. I tried to avenge the attack, but it was too much for my still-bruised hands.

"If you fight back, I will make it worse for you, darling. You think hands on you are bad? But you will get your request. You are my new punching bag instead of your mom. You happy?" This was, indeed the last time I fought back. To prove his point, he pulled out his pocket knife, he took my crumbling figure and slashed at it. My arms showed the cuts, multiple on either side. "I feel bad, that is a lie. But, I will tell you that if you EVER fight me back again, you will have even deeper slashes somewhere other than your arms."

These were the reason I wore long sleeves. Not just his torture. But the cuts I brought upon myself to cope with what he did to me. I was self-conscious of my arms. The scars left were not just visible, they cut deeper than skin. He hurt in more ways than I would ever admit. If I showed skin there would be eyebrows raised.

I didn't want to answer questions. I didn't want classmates' pity looks, or the whispers they'd say among themselves. So, I wore long sleeves, and sweatshirts, and my varsity jacket 24/7. No one noticed, and if they did they didn't question me. They all just assumed I was just cold a lot. It got hard in the summer when it was hot outside, but I refused to drop them. I wore dry-fit clothes and avoided the heat as much as possible. I would always have an excuse handy to avoid pools and swimming.

As for Dustin, I had to beg and plead with him to forgive me. The first week he wouldn't even stand in the same room as me. The second week he gave me the silent treatment, but would eat at the dinner table. The third week we reached a break through when he said one or two words to me. This went on for some time until I came up with the promise that now stood.

I told him that I would never raise my fist to someone again. And I broke that promise and my brother's heart. And I didn't know how I would be able to build up that trust again. One I still hadn't managed to give out to anyone, not even my mother.