Monsters under my skin

Another day, another drink.

It’s the same drink—scotch straight from the bottle; that is on his easy days. On his harder days it is 2 bottles of scotch, 4 glasses of vodka, and 12 cans of Budweiser. The tv is always on loud; playing either re-runs of Law and Order or sports. Football, college football, soccer, baseball, or hockey. He never sleeps in the same bed as Mom any more.

Sleeping on the old worn-out recliner, still wearing his suit. I never have the nerve to wake him. When he wakes, the devil comes to play. Whispering sweet nothings and barreling anger.

Another night, another body against her.

It’s never the same man; sometimes it’s a woman. At night over the sound of the tv her funs echo throughout the creaking house. I think the neighbors can hear her. I never take the time to remember their faces. They will be gone by morning long before Dad wakes up with a bad hangover.

Walking away with messy hair, marks covering their bodies, and the scent of last night’s fun; they all either reek of sweat or hard liquor, not all at the same time of course. I never ask Mom why she does the things she does. Buying me things to keep quiet. There isn’t a soul in town who hasn’t trailed her, marking their favorite places.

Another morning, another act.

Dad wakes up, going to the bathroom to sober up and take a few pills. He tells mom he loves her before he goes to work, planting a kiss on her lips that touched another. They used to be high school sweethearts. Since the day they brought me home everything changed. There is no sweet kisses or surprises, not even ‘I love you’ before Dad goes to work.

I used to see pictures of them all around the house. Smiling so bright that it blinds me. I once asked mom what changed and she gave me a dark look, only hugging me tightly as if she was trying to take the very breath I have away.

Dad loves me, he tells me so. Mom loves me, she tells me so. Their loves mean different things and I know that. Moms love means not telling a soul that I am alive. Dads love means coming into my room at night when he has had too much to drink; that’s why I asked Mom for a lock. Neither of them have a key. No one is allowed to come in.

Another day, another lie.

Mom works two jobs. Dad works one. Mom has her secret job at night that only a select few can know. Dad puts on a brave face even though he hates his job. Everyone lies, everyone hides something; I am no exception.

Sometimes I dream of what school would be like. Maybe everyone would know my dad, the retailer with the most clients. It is a given that everyone would know my mom, the baker down the street with something to say. And everyone would know me as the girl with so many lies that I wear them as a jacket.

I wonder if life would be different if I was born to another family, someone high class and loves their kid. I wish it would be different. The only escape I have is my dreams, the only source of peace. I wished I could go, then I could pretend to be someone else.

Another day, another misery.

The lock on my door seems to work just fine. No one can come in, its peaceful. That slowly changes to the fighting.

The yelling and screaming of Dad’s voice. Belly aching, low like a growl, and every shout seems to shake my door. Dad came home early today, that is what was unusual. Mom had told me not to say anything about the two men she seemed to bring home. He seemed to have caught them red-handed.

Covering my ears, still faintly hearing them. I can’t tell what they are, something not very nice or worth repeating. Something shattered, maybe glass? I don’t know, I’m too afraid to leave my room but I need to get out of here.

Quickly and quietly, I slowly turn the knob. The smiling bright photos were on the ground and shattered, every picture seemed to be torn in half. Splitting right down the middle between them.

Mom was wearing a silk dress and Dad was nowhere to be seen. Only the after math of the fight was painted against the walls and floors. The bedroom was empty, the two men gone and only Mom was left behind. The kitchen was a mess of glass and water. In the living room, the tv was smashed in. Something crunched under my bare feet, glass cutting and blood took place of the usual empty space. Under the shattered glass and blood was a picture of us. I was four when that happened, ten years ago seemed like a long time.

I had Mom’s wavy blonde hair and small nose, Dad’s tan skin and green eyes. We were all so happy in that moment.

“Natalie?” Mom called my name through a sniffle.

My heart skipped a beat as I turned to find her standing there. Messy hair falling out of a pony tail, bruising up and down her exposed skin. I couldn’t tell if it was from Dad or those men, either way, she looked like a train wreck.

“I thought I told you not to come out of your room.”

“I…I’m sorry, I heard fighting…and I…” I looked back at the picture, quickly hiding it under my shirt as Mom grabbed me by my hair.

Pulling me towards my room, she threw me in. Landing with a loud thud; enough to startle the neighbor’s downstairs but who am I kidding, they won’t come to rescue me. The glass still puncturing my feet, the blood trailed into here. Mom looked down at me with a sinister look; before turning and shutting the door.

My only sense of freedom was short lived. Locking the door, I hurried back onto the bed, grabbing the tweezers from under the pillow and pulled the glass out. I was used to treating my own wounds, it isn’t the first time I bandaged cuts. Though, this was a new experience for me. Normally it’s just on my arms or thighs.

I wanted out and the only way out was to escape.

I can hear her, the voice in the darkness telling me to take those pieces of glass against my skin. I fear her, she knows what I want most.

“Come Natalie, take another chance at freedom. You know it would be better.”

I shake my head and pray tomorrow is another day.

Another night, another attempt.

It was that much different, I listened to her. Those silent pleas in the back of my mind. “Just go through the window and you’ll be free. Like a bird soaring through the sky.”

I wasn’t going to take my chance of freefalling.

I didn’t have much of anything. Just a few pairs of pants and shirts, one pair of worn out shoes and a holy jacket. It kept me warm most nights. Into an old duffle bag that was Dad’s. Pulling my waves into a pony tail.

I knew their routines. Yesterday was something I didn’t want to be a part of again. Mom would be home late, dinner with a client and if everything goes well, she might even go to their place. Dad never broke his routine, going to the bar then another bar, and finally home, filled to the brim of alcohol. He wouldn’t be home for at least a couple of hours.

Taking a breath, opening the squeaky window. I was about halfway out, when I heard Dad’s feet sliding against the carpeted floor. His slurring words carried through the locked door.

“Natalie, sweetheart.”

I knew those words.

“Open the door, I just want to talk.”

I didn’t even risk that, climbing down onto the balcony and then over, heading towards the woods far off in the distance. She was laughing in the distance, I know it all too well. I was free from them and free from her.

Another attempt, freedom at last.

I had never felt the air like this before. Taking it all in, the smoky air from countless smokers, the soft inhale of street vendors, and the sweet smell of freedom. My only source of freedom abruptly interrupted by the soft beeps of something I can’t put my finger to.

“Freedom is short lived,” she carefully whispered. The world around me changed from light to a surrounding darkness.

Something ached besides my feet. Glancing at my arms, newly done cuts I don’t remember putting there, pink and pulsing. My own heart beating in my ears.

Another beep, taking me away from the freedom.

Pulling me back to reality that I so desperately wanted to get away from. Her smile faded in the distance, I knew her but I didn’t at the same time. So far away and yet, close enough to touch. The pain in my heart was immense but not as worse as the pain on my wrists.

I woke up in a hospital. It smelled of bleach and other cleaning products. Something tickled my nose, vision blurring as I took in my surroundings. A machine was to my right, the soft up and downs of my heart fluctuated. A line with liquids trailed to my arm which was covered in a bandage and slowly soaking with a red substance.

To my left was a small desk, covered from one end to the other with pictures of me when I was little. Everything I dreamed of, the freedom of the winds and the smell of the air was nothing but short lived fantasy. My reality was hidden and shrouded in light with shadows hiding things I don’t want to see.

Someone held my hand, I don’t know who that is. A woman with charcoal colored hair slept peacefully. I looked back to the right, she sat near the window; taking in the sunlight. Black covered up to her elbows, covering her hands. Eyes a piercing yellow and no white at all. Sharp teeth that coaxed me into taking freedom. Tears streamed my face as I closed my eyes.

Another time, another dream. Another attempt gone.

There is a monster under my skin, I call her Natalie. She whispers fake words to me. Telling me everything will be better if I just let the red river come out. I know she will be back, she is always back after an attempt, after all, she lives under my skin. Crawling and creeping like a spider.