Lost.......

“Why did you do that?!” Yells my Dad. “What did you think you were doing? Did you think it was just harmless fun?!” I nod my head vigorously. “You know what? I'm tired of your stupid mistakes. Your carelessness. It's about time I do something about it.” He says this every time. And he does the same thing every time. Dad walks over to the mini shelf attached to the wall in the kitchen. This shelf has three small compartments, each containing mail or keys. It's old and wooden with a few cracks in it. Grandma hung it up about eye level for the average adult in our household. The shelf is about two feet high. It's been in the house for a long time now. I know this because I remember it from way back when I was tiny. Maybe three or four. Dad comes back with a blind rod. I'm not really sure what it's used for, since all of them in the house have been removed from their original place and into Dad's secret stash. Dad's eyes are as black as the night and as hard as stone as he comes toward me, ready to strike. I cower. Oh, no. Not again. And, sure enough, the blind rod comes down hard against my thigh. One. Two. Three hits. My tears are like a river as they flow down my face. My sobs are loud and gut wrenching. This satisfies him, as he places the blind wand on the shelf again. I, on the other hand, run to my room, eager to get out of his sight. Once in my room, the anger starts to settle in. Why? Why do you let him get to you like this? Why are you crying? You're stronger than this. Pull yourself together. Angrily, I wipe the tears from my eyes and face. I throw my shoulders back and march out of the room. I've put up with this for six years. I think I've had enough. I find Dad watching tv in the living room. I block the tv, demanding his undivided attention. “What do you want?” He asks. I smile. This is going to be so much fun. “Just because you hit me doesn't mean I'll listen. It just makes you mean.” He jumps up out of his chair, resentment shining in his eyes. I back up a few paces, then stop. I will not run away. I will face whatever he is going to do and not let it get to me. This is the day I leave my mark. I turn towards the shelf, as I am sure that's where he is headed. However, I feel his lukewarm hand on the back of my head. I only have a second to process what's going on before my head connects with the wall. I bounce back, tears in my eyes. I wipe them away. My head is pounding like waves crashing against a wall of stone in the midst of a storm. “Feel better?” I ask bitingly. Now, I watch as he takes down a blind wand. “You will never disrespect me like that!” And he strikes me over and over again. My legs, my back, my arms and my bottom. But the tears don't come. Eventually, after wearing himself out, he leaves. On his way back to his seat he shoves me. Hard. I land face first with a thud against the floor. Blood appears on the carpet in front of me. Crap. Another nose bleed. In the bathroom, I stuff toilet paper up my nose, in an attempt to stop the bleeding. I check for any noticeable bruises and an old saying comes to mind. Every night, my mom used to tell me this before I would go to bed. “Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. If they do, take a shoe, and beat them until they are black and blue.” Right now, I'm looking like a bedbug that was beaten until it was black and blue. With a little bit of blood on my face, a big welp on my forehead, and various bruises decorating my body, I look like someone who just got out of the octagon in an MMA match.