Coming from an abusive household, Meredith Hill makes up her mind to finally escape. She runs till she meets a family friend who decides to take her in as one of her own. When high school is added to the mix, she must learn how to cope with her past...
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"The child is grown The dream is gone I have become comfortably numb" —Pink Floyd
Back then, my confident-self would have took control and stopped this madness all at once. But now? My meek and cowardice-self watches in slow motion as her teeth grit, jaw ticks and the vein in the left side of her forehead pops out. She's merciless, maybe even wrathful.
"Please pl-please, I'm begging you! Stop this!" It's as if my screams enter one ear and right out the other. At this point my throat and lungs burn from her lack of morals. I hold my bruised and dainty arms above my face to avoid the blows of venom. "Please mom, look at me . . . it's me; Meredith!"
"You worthless bitch!" She spat, "I knew I should have given you up when I had the chance! Now I'm stuck with a bitch like you! I'm ashamed to call you my daughter." My mother, of all people, screams from above my trembling form, whiskey bottle clutched in her left hand while her right is curled in a fist coming towards my face.
It was in this moment, above all, I thought I was going to die.
This has happened before, multiple times actually. As years past after the accident, she's went from verbal to physical abuse in the blink of an eye. And every time I'd end up bloody and more broken then the time before. The hospital wasn't an option, mother made that very clear from her threat. "If you ever go seek help I'll make sure you die a slow, painful death."
My mother had just returned home from a date with a man a couple years younger then her. He kept on and on telling her about his kids and how successful they were. She came home slurring telling me to come downstairs.
It's unfortunate I don't do much, at least that's what mother says. I usually keep to myself. A couple years ago, ballet was my occupation. I had just moved to pointe when I had to quit because money got tight. I miss it though. I miss the music that would sing though my veins like ecstasy when I moved so gracefully.
The punch hits me. Hard. I don't even want to know what I look like right now. I can feel the warm liquid pour out of my nose hitting my lips. I can taste the metallic substance. I look up to the woman I call 'mom' taken aback. She has always hated me, she has a reason to though. She didn't even have to say anything while her actions proved it all.
There were days when she'd call me a 'bitch' or a 'slut' or, my personal favorite, the 'worst fucker in history.'
I scramble up from my crouched locale and fly up the stairs on wobbly legs. "FUCK YOU," my mother repeatedly yells as I escape from her grasp. I run and lock myself in my room. Glancing to my left I capture a glimpse of my body and the face stained with tears.
