Outburst

The door behind me shakes with every blow, sending shock waves through the dressing table and my back. Tears of fear and hatred run down my face while near-silent sobs wrack my body. Every blow is accompanied by an order OPEN THIS DOOR, or an insult WORTHLESS USELESS NO-GOOD FAT LAZY UNGRATEFUL, or a threat of what will happen once the door is open, when there is nothing between me and my assailant. My fingers dig into my skin, I'm staring at the window across the small room. Promising myself this is the last time. When it's over, I'll run away. Open the window, take off the screen, climb out and never come back. I rake my fingernails down my face, wanting to rip the flesh from my bones, drain my body of blood...her blood. My mother. The cause of my pain and fear. When I was younger I had reprieves from her moods. I stayed with grandparents, aunts, my younger sister's dad... Now I'm a teenager. We live further away from family, my sister's dad scared me away with his own temper, I am trapped. I hate going out, my weight draws cruel attention from others and my self-esteem is low from a lifetime of harsh words and almost no emotional support.

The blows stop, footsteps thump their way down the hall and the front door slams. I get up and shut the curtains, just in case she comes to glare through my window and yell some more, then I sit back against the door, shaking. I am waiting, dreading the sound of the front door. Silence. After about ten minutes, when my tears have dried and the shaking has subsided, I get up and grab my school bag, stuff a couple of books and my portable music player in and sling it over my shoulders. I move the dressing table from in front of the door and slip into the dark hallway. The house remains silent but I can't stop glancing at the front door behind me as I walk to the kitchen. Two apples and a bottle of water join the items in my bag and I am out the back door and over the hardly-used back gate, walking quickly away fro*m the house and the main roads. I have no plan, no idea where I will go, but anywhere is better than the house where threats and hairbrushes bounce off the walls regularly. A few blocks later, I turn right and slow down, less fearful now that I am further from the main roads and less likely to run into my mother. Her anger would have driven her to walk to the nearest thrift store or slot machines. The only place I could go would be the river that cuts through town, any other direction and I would be walking for hours to get to one of the next towns, where I am unknown. I could go to a friend's house, but that would lead to questions and their parents would inevitably send me home or contact my mother. I'd rather be alone with music and nature anyway. I reach the river and follow the old railroad tracks until I find a shady spot well away from buildings and the road. I sit and rest, closing my eyes to let the running water and birdsong sweep over me. I can't even remember why she got angry, not that it matters. I know I will return to the house when the sun begins to sink. Where else would I go? I don't want to burden anyone with my troubles, why should I? She will pretend nothing happened and I will hide away in my room. Tense calm will reign in the house until the next outburst.