Seven Years!

Included in this post is a short story that I have written for many reasons; one, for my 3rd year portfolio for Uni and second is, the book I read before writing this piece really touched me and I felt like trying to write a piece to see if I could put myself in their shoes. Here it is...

Seven Years

I don’t know the date, the time, or even if it is day or night. I am alone, no one here to comfort me. It’s dark and gloomy down here, I noticed the cold once but now I’m used to the bitter temperature. The floor is jagged and walking on it shreds my bare feet, I hear a banging; I curl up into a ball in the corner, and wait. He charges into the room making the floor shake underneath my quivering body. He towers over me shouting orders; my puny arms force my body up.

I shiver as I hear his voice pound into my head. I say to myself there’s no point living if you don’t know you’re alive. Every part of me feels dead, the only reason I know I exist is the bang in my head which is my heart trying to keep me alive. I can only hope that one day he will end the suffering, but all he has ever done is build me up then knock me down. I shut my eyes so tight that my face screws up; I can sense him lowering to my face he is still yelling. The chaos that I live in controls my mind, I can’t help but scream inside, I have to concentrate to control my mind, I must hide the agony to save myself from giving him the satisfaction of showing that I’m weak. I am not free, I do not make my own choices, I get told what to do and if I don’t do it I get beaten within an inch of my life, but that’s as far as he ever goes. Why won’t he go further? Why won’t he end it? He has stopped shouting in my face but I can smell his alcoholic breath. I’ve opened my eyes. I see him again and that look is still in his eyes; the look of hatred. He starts to walk out of the basement, I am not sure what to do, I think I am meant to follow him.

I walk up the mouldy wooden stairs to the back of the kitchen and there I wait. I hope this is what I was meant to do, last time I came out of the basement without being told to, he hit me in the face, I plummeted down the stairs to the floor, ending up breaking my arm. He told the hospital that I slipped walking down the stairs. I was five years old at the time. Years later and I’m still here, I go through the days in a trance not really aware of what I’m doing. The hits, punches, kicks and smacks I’m used to, I don’t dare defend myself it would show to him that I am getting stronger then I won’t get any food. Every day is the same; I go round the house doing what I’m told, cleaning up after this pig of a man. At first I thought it was normal every child have arguments with their parents.

I'm being shoved back down the basement stairs he is obviously going out; I'm not trusted in the house in case I steal food or clothes to hide in the basement. I did that once, I was young, naive and foolish. He had gone out and I crept up the stairs, into his room, I couldn’t take clothes from my room because they wouldn’t fit, I haven’t been bought anything new since I was four. I opened his cupboard and as the door creaked it made me nervous and a strange feeling burst through my body and I shivered. I took a jumper, shirt and a few pairs of socks. I made sure I left the room exactly how I found it; I hurried down the stairs quietly and headed straight for the basement. I hid the clothes behind the freezer, but never gain, I learnt my lesson. A few weeks later he found the clothes, and I was in hospital with a head injury from a wall. I was in hospital for three days.

He hurls me into the basement and I thump the wall and batter my head. As he slams the door shut, I roll onto my back and hear the lock of the door, the scratching of the key against the silver lock and the clunks and turns go through my head haunting me, reminding me of the shit reality I live in. I lie there as the cold runs through my body and I know it will soon take over and make me numb. I notice that there is more stuff in the basement than there was before. This is what he was doing while I was upstairs cleaning. All I could hear were thuds and hoped they had nothing to do with me. It’s the material from his van, must have been left over from the last building site.

I noticed a rope. I think to myself if he won't do it I will. I tie a knot in the rope, one of the knots moves, a slip knot I think. I climb on top of the freezer and tie the other end of the rope round a beam of wood. I place the end of the rope with a knot round my scrawny neck and say to myself “thanks for making my life hell.” I step off the freezer and hang there, I soon black out. The next thing I am aware of I am back on the jagged floor, the double vision I am seeing is finally clear and I am paralyzed by the sight of him. I realise I haven’t done it; he has come home and cut me down. I try to laugh but cry instead. I know I am back, back in the hideous and cruel life that I lead. What he is doing is screwing things up inside my head, he has me beaten but when I try and end it he won't let me. Why? 

I'm cold; the dampness is drenching my clothes. My emotions are running through my body. I don’t know what to do. I lie here day after day; the image I see before me every time I close my eyes is the dreary, dark, gloomy and cold room I'm trapped in night and day. Even when I'm physically not in the room my body feels like it is. It aches all over and has a constant shiver.

I gaze into the shattered mirror on the wall looking at my distorted reflection; I can’t help but look at the repulsive bruised face starring back at me. He has caused this. I want to know why? Why he does it? What have I done? The twinkle that I used to have in my eyes has been crushed along with my hopes and dreams. I've even resorted to attempted suicide; I stand on my tip-toes so that I can see the hideous red wheals round my scraggy neck caused by the rope. I can't bear to look at myself anymore. I grab the mirror off the wall and hurl it. I watch as the mirror collides with the floor and fractures into hundreds of shards. I hear him coming.

* * * * * * * * * * 

There is a knock at the front door. I am told to sit at the table and colour in, I always get told to do this when there is a knock at the door, just in case they come in. A lady walks into the room; she comes over and says “Hello how are you?” I reply with “Fine thank you.” He tells me to go to my room while he speaks to the lady; I walk towards the basement stairs. But am stopped and hurried to my old bedroom from when I was a toddler. Everything is the same; the room is pink and has my wardrobes and chest of drawers still in the same place. I sit on the bed waiting, anxiously and confused.

I imagine what my mother would have looked like if I had ever got to meet her. I imagine my life would be so different; she would read me stories and tuck me in at night. I used to have a lady who did that but she left when I was four years old. I don’t remember her but have heard of her.

The lady walks into the room. I jump slightly, she startles me. She apologises for doing so as she sits on the bed beside me and tells me that she is a social worker. She tells me her name is Grace. She goes on to explain that she had a call from my school; they are worried that I am missing too much school, and when I do turn up I have bruises on my body. Grace ends the sentence with “I am not here for your father, I am here for you.”

I tell her everything about the last seven years of my life, the basement, the beatings, the pain, the hospital visits and even the suicide attempt. I tell her he blames me. He blames me that mum isn’t here; she died giving birth to me. He blames me, he calls me a murderer and that’s why I have been locked in the basement for the last seven years. He tells me that I took away his only love, the love of his life and that she has been replaced with a little ugly shit. Every day I go through the torture, the pain and physical abuse. I can’t do it anymore.

I stare hard at the floor ashamed of myself. Grace wipes the tears from my cold cheeks. She says, “I will be back.” I look at the closed door; I can't believe she has gone. Was she ever here? Did I dream her? What if she doesn’t come back? What if he comes instead? I feel the anger rise up in me. I reach for the razor-sharp spike of mirror that I hid in the pocket of the oversized trousers that I am wearing and wait.