Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I reached the stairs when I saw him at the bottom. I didn't want to risk him throwing me down the stairs. He's done it before and I had three fractured ribs and a broken wrist. I never cried as hard like that except for when my parents died. He had taken me in as a promise to my mom but clearly for him it soon soured because he began hitting me shortly after I moved in at age 15.

It was my freshman year and I couldn't get him to stop hitting me. He'd stay up late drinking, adding more to his gut belly. He'd also try to starve me sometimes. I would leave so hungry for school and sometimes during lunch, I'd ask Jude for money for second lunch. I had to wait until I was eighteen to leave home.

As a refuge from his beatings, I'd think about painting canvas various colors as the pain from his fists began to dull and his breathing gets heavy. I'm eighteen now but it never ends. His fists never ends, even psychologically. I've turned into a mess due to him. I hid it from the family doctor and my cousin who visits on occasion.

I've sold over 25 paintings ever since I took up the hobby in sophomore year and it's helped a little for a down deposit for a rented apartment I'm lookin into with Emma. But I'm hoping to God he doesn't hit me somewhere it'll be obvious. He never does but I can never count on it. I don't want her to know.

"Come on down, Dipshit. My floor is a mess. Clean it up!" He yelled. I began racing down, careful not to rub my knee against the railing of the stairs. My knee is still sensitive from when he pushed me onto the concrete outside when he accidentally scratched his  car. He always blamed me.

I went into the kitchen where I could see a twelve pack of beer on the table. On the floor was a glass beer bottle, broken, its content all over the floor. Fuck, not this! I thought. I had to get ready to leave in five minutes for Jude to pick me up. I moved over to the cabinet next to the fridge where the paper towels were, taking three of them out.

I bent over, and placed it over the large glass shards, careful not to grip it hard. I picked it up and went to the garbage can and opened it. When I was done, I went to pick up some of the tiny shards, the ones that were still big enough for me to take care of.

Right as I was done putting it in the garbage can, I could hear him mutter about how I'm doing it wrong.

I tried to ignore it but I couldn't. I could feel my brain start to overthink but I focused on me getting this done and leaving quickly and quietly as possible before I could get kicked or punched for some perceived mistake, imaginary or not. I went to take out the vacuum out of where the paper towels were and was met with a hard slap.