Chapter Text
6:00 am
brrrrriiiiiiiinnnngg---
“Uhhhhgggg" I groan. It's Sunday. My least favorite day of the week.
Sunday is church. Something I’ve been forced to partake in as far as I can remember. Some of my literal first memories are of the church, sitting with a group of people in the early morning. I was so young that the memories are fragments now, but the sentiment stands, nonetheless. I’ve been trapped here for as long as I can remember.
It wouldn’t be all that bad if my parents weren’t so hell-bent on us keeping up appearances.
Wear your hair like this. Tuck your shirt like that.
Make yourself look more presentable. Make us look like a real family.
Put on some makeup, cover your knees.
We can’t let them know how much of a disgrace you are
I put on the most comfortable outfit I can manage to find that they deem acceptable for “a day of worship”. A tan, V-neck, long-sleeved shirt, only slightly too big so it doesn't cling to or show too much skin, and a pair of black dress pants my mother gave me after I refused to wear a skirt. We had a fight so intense that day that we missed service. I shiver thinking about the aftermath of standing on that issue.
My parents adopted me when I was very young. They said I was probably only a bit over the age of 2. Nobody really knows. I had no medical records or birth certificate when I was placed on the steps of the chapel. No mother or father to reference. I was a mystery. It was what they always told me growing up. How they convinced me to keep coming back to church week after week. They told me that the Lord brought me to them for a reason. That I was meant to be saved.
What a load of bullshit.
My feelings of gratitude to the church died when I was old enough to understand that the situations going on around me weren’t normal in any sense of the word. Abuse. Humiliation. Sexual Harassment. So many things that felt inherently wrong that the leaders of the church, the same ones that preach about love and protection from God, simply turned a blind eye to. My parents included. They're not in charge by any means, but they have enough money and time invested into the development of the place that the church takes their opinions strongly to mind.
I think that's why they’ve ignored me.
It’s no secret within the congregation that my father is a short-tempered man. Three things that don't mix with that are large sum of money, a substance abuse problem, and a child you despise. My mother is at least kind when she wants to be. Shes quiet. Mouselike. But when she’s not following my dad like a lost puppy, She’s nitpicking my life choices or finding some way to destroy my self-esteem, but at least at the end of the day people can’t tell what Shes done.
I turned 18 a handful of months ago. I had planned to leave as soon as the clock hit midnight. I don't know why I didn’t. The longer I stay the harder it is to go.
BANG! BANG! “ARE YOU EVEN AWAKE? WHY THE HELL IS YOUR DAMN DOOR LOCKED!” I’m quickly pulled from my thoughts as a brush the wrinkles from my shirt and respond through the door.
“I’m changing!” I retort. I resist the urge to say more. Physically biting my tongue till I taste a metallic familiarity.
“I want you out of the room and in my car in five minutes. I won’t have you keeping us from showing up on time.” Heavy footsteps follow, fading towards the other end of the house
‘The room.’ I nearly forgot. I own nothing here. Everything they’ve provided me with is a privilege. Everything I think I own is theirs. I’m entitled to nothing. The thought turns my gut. I pull my hair back into a low ponytail and make my way to the car.
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10:00 am
Service was standard. Boring. Nauseatingly fake. I relished it when they released us and were free to leave. Everyone except me and spare few others. My parents stay longer to kiss-ass and do who knows what else.
My freedom is short lived even away from my parents. I’m leaning against the window looking out into the field of trees that stretches toward the outside of town when my head is yanked back by some kids trying to get a rise out of me. This happens sometimes. My hair is long. Too long. But at least it’s what one would consider nice hair. A deep brown with red undertones that are prominent in the sun. Soft. People like to touch it without asking. If I’m going to be forced to have it, I may as well take care of it. My parents refuse to let me cut it. Said if I did, they would make me regret it. I’ve never wanted to figure out what they meant by that.
But I don’t have the energy to run after the kids when they tease anymore. I just let my sour mood fester until my parents tell me it’s time to go back to the house.
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6:00 pm
Dinner tonight was quiet. Almost too quiet. I don’t speak unless spoken to, and it seems that my parents aren’t in the mood to engage in any conversation; spare a few comments about whatever it is their working on next with the church. I’m lost in my thoughts picking at my food. I can’t bring myself to eat given that mom decided to add mushrooms to pasta tonight. They know I hate mushrooms. The smell, the taste. It’s something I've had issues with since I was a child.
“Are you going to eat what your mother worked hard to make or are you going to sit there and act ungrateful?”
There it is. Thats why the silence is stronger tonight. He’s in a mood. This is going to be a long night.
“I’m just not hungry. I was thinking of going to bed early.” I say to try and deter the conversation from the meal. He knows why I’m not eating, and he wants me to admit it so he can berate me and tell me how much of an ‘ungrateful little shit’ I am. I’ve played this game too long, though, and I am also not in the mood.
He glares at me and sets down his fork. “Take a couple bites and you can be excused.”
I blank. He hasn’t played that card in years. I scrunch my face and answer in the most stoic voice I can muster. “I’m not a child anymore. I don’t think that is necessary. I know what I-”
BAM
His fist hits the table, abruptly cutting me off and shaking the vase of dying flowers in the center. I jump, just from the sound alone. He doesn’t scare me anymore, I can take whatever he throws, but this is uncharted territory. Some new form of power trip that I’m not sure how to navigate.
“Eat it.” His face and voice doesn’t match the emotion that rolls off him in a near-visible ripple. The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. My gaze is unwavering and my voice just as solid. The hair on my neck stands on its end and I physically feel my temperature rising from the raw emotion bubbling inside me.
“No.”
As if he knew I was going to defy him, his feet are kicking back his chair and walking toward me before I get the word out of my mouth. I stand up to defend myself, but even with anger for fuel and adrenaline coursing through me, he is double if not triple my size, and fighting back is not a smart option.
I brace myself for his hand to hit me, but what he does again is completely unexpected. He brings his hand around the back of my head and palms the base of my skull. His fingers, that are unceremoniously weaved between strands of my hair, clench; scratching my scalp. Like I’m a damn cat. He yanks my head back, and his face is so close to mine, his face stoic despite the manic look in his eye.
I am shaking at this point, sweat running down my face, my own emotions making their way past my walls to throw daggers of hatred toward him.
He grabs the plate of food and starts dragging me through the house. Upon kicking open the door to my bedroom, he throws me to the ground at the base of my bed and dumps the food over my head. The sauce drips down my face and the noodles finding their way down my shirt.
He doesn’t say a word as I stand up, squaring myself up to mimic confidence. I walk over to my desk full of art supplies, where my guitar strings lay ready to be strung, and where I know a wrag is hiding somewhere.
But as I look for it another idea comes to mind.
I grab the item, clutching it in my hands before turning around to face him. I grab my hair, making sure he doesn't see what I’m doing before he can stop me.
I feel the strands fall at my feet, and I hear the thud as I drop the scissors. My heart is pounding so loud, and it feels like my ears are full of cotton. I barely register my parents' voices as they scream, or my dad's hands as he grabs my arm, or even the cold winter air as he pushes me outside.