I've been writing this in my head (or is it heart?) all night and morning and in my sleep. And now, as it comes down to it, down to the line, I wonder: do I really want to write this?
Then I remember: it's not me. I am not writing this. I am merely a scribe, a secretary, to the words that flow through me. Amanuensis.
He was sitting in front of that dingy TV in his battered brown leather chair, taking a drag on his freshly rolled cancer stick. I shuddered at the thought as I watched him, invisibly, from the couch, attempting to sink further in to the odorous material. His skin was riddled with battle scars, much like the chair in which he sat. He exhaled and the smoke carelessly billowed out, as I instinctively reached up to cover my mouth and nose to avoid inhaling the carcinogenic vapor.
"I know you think you're better than me," accused the voice from the chair.
I sat there, stunned, no longer invisible.
He chortled sarcastically and began to cough. Speaking through his coughs he said, "Come here you little fucking twat, let's see how much better you are than me."
Regressing further into the couch, I disobeyed his request and closed my eyes. This is it; this is how it always happens. He's so fucking sensitive, and why am I so fucking naive? Why must I subject myself to this hatred?
I snapped out of these thoughts as he grabbed my arm, digging his repulsive nails into my desensitized flesh. "See, bitch? See what you are?" he spat, jabbing the cigarette burns on my arms. Scars he had inflicted upon me.
"You are a fucking pathetic piece of shit, you know that?" he snarled, removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth on which it was perched, and ground it into my skin.
Wincing in pain, I gave him just what he wanted. I begged for him to stop and he laughed, pulling his face close to my own.
Grabbing my shirt, he yanked me toward him and smiled his yellow smile and rolled his tongue over his grey teeth.
"Well, bitch, have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes... Of course I have," I replied.
"I can't fucking hear you!" he shouted, salivating.
"Yes, yes sir I have!" I said, with more gusto, protruding my chest.
He led me by my arm and threw me into the wall, indenting the drywall. I fell to the ground and tried to crawl away, with him at my heels, kicking my calves and thighs with every step.
"Fucking try to get away, bitch," he snarled, removing his leather belt from around his beer gut, forming it into a loop. I glanced back for a second, knowing what was coming.
He unleashed his fury on my head and back, and I still tried to crawl away, toward the safety of the bathroom. I had no room; no place of my own. This was my sanctuary.
I reached the tiled floor and hurriedly crawled in, jumping up and turning to close the door. He forced his way in, and knocked me into the shower curtain. Falling, grasping, gasping, I stared into his yellow face and he grinned and turned to leave. This is when the world went black.
Another day, another burn, another beating, nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide. He kept me here, always, confined. I was still in the bathroom when I came to, and I could hear him grunting in the next room. I didn't want to know what he was doing as I regressed to my dream world -- the one that never involves him, or pain, or fright.
I peeled back the wallpaper and revealed my mind. The thoughts in which I revelled, the memories with which I consumed myself -- they were all there. I fingered my burn, but my pain receptors to this kind of abuse had been completely negated. I no longer felt the initial pain or aftershock, but I knew I had to put on a show, or he wouldn't stop until I did. I knew he got off on this kind of thing. Shuddering, I glanced back at the wall.
Tuning out the dingy reality, I grabbed the hidden loose floor tile and began etching; etching a story of survival. Foreign liquid rolled down my cheeks as I quickly stood to glance into the mirror. I was crying. I don't even know why I cry anymore -- I am so used to this shit. Huffing, I knelt back down and began to etch. Writing was the only thing that gave me hope anymore.
I was shaken from this sequence once more by a vicious pounding at the door.
"Get your ass out of there!" he shouted.
I covered my secret place with the peeling wallpaper, splashed water on my face, cleaned up, and went out there, but with a new found sense of righteousness for the injustices I have suffered.
Adrenaline rushing, I held back while walking towards his smirking face, hands trembling at my sides. With as much force as he has hatred for me, I unleashed a series of punches directly at his unsuspecting fat face, and a few to his fat gut. His dark eyes lit up for a moment with a spark of fear, but I paid no mind. I'd had enough, and he deserved this shit. By now, his right eye was swollen shut and I had knocked out a tooth. He fell to the ground and into the wall, indenting the drywall. His head slumped to the side, and I knew I had to act fast to make my escape.
Freedom wasn't as grand as I had thought, and it definitely wasn't like the epitaph I left behind of the so-called "old me" inscribed on the bathroom wall. I left the dingy house and found myself on an equally (if not moreso) dingy street. The cars were as battered as I was, and I didn't know which way to turn. I was surrounded by filth.
I found myself back on the old man's couch, sinking invisibly into the material. When he finally woke up, he screamed, "You think you're better than me?"
Muttering, I admitted, "No."
