BEAUTIFUL BROKEN MESS (Broken, Series #2)(2)

I also remember that I didn’t scream or make a sound. I learned early on that screaming only made the punishment last longer and he was going to do this regardless. I slumped down into my protective position on the floor and tucked in my legs, while trying as best as I could to cover my face. When the fruit wasn’t doing anything besides becoming a sopping wet mess against my body, he then switched over to his fists. I recall him screaming about wasting money and a few other unpleasant terms he created for me.

I lay on the ground and waited for the punishment to end, while fist after fist and a few feet continued their assault. I knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d worn himself out. Wham… my face, Wham… broken rib, Wham… my stomach.

Mercifully, once the pain reached an all-time high, the blackness engulfed me. The blackness was safe. Sometimes I wished I could just stay there.

When I finally came to, Mrs. Thomas, the next-door neighbor, was hovering over me, trying to get the swelling down by placing bags of frozen vegetables across various parts of my body. I didn’t even want to know the extent of my injuries. The bruises took months to heal. I wasn’t allowed outside of the trailer and my mom disenrolled me from school, informing them that I would be home-schooled. Yeah right. Unless watching her down an entire forty constituted homeschooling, I wasn’t learning much.

Mrs. Thomas helped me heal everyday, but she didn’t want the authorities coming around any more than my parents did. So she never called for help. She had her own secrets to hide, only one of them being her drug-abusing husband. By the time the next school year commenced, I had to repeat the sixth grade. I also never ate an apple again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Shortly after my seventeenth birthday, I was hired to work in the kitchen of an Italian restaurant on the nicer side of town. For me, working in a restaurant was a dream. The hours were long and required me to stay late into the night. Perfect. The less time I had to spend at home, the better. Another bonus was that Chef Moretti, or Nico as he let me call him, favored me among the other employees. I think it’s probably because I worked the hardest, never wanting to go home.

Some nights when the restaurant was slow, he taught me how to cook a few of the dishes we served. I was constantly fantasizing about one day living on my own and being able to prepare authentic meals for myself at home. Food from plastic bags or cardboard boxes wouldn’t be allowed. I was excited at the idea of being able to bring home fresh fruits and vegetables. Except apples, never apples.

Nico doesn’t know how abusive my parents actually are, but I think he understands to an extent why I have to hide from them. When I started working there, I asked him if it would be possible to keep half of my earnings saved on the side. My reason being that my dad requires I bring home a paystub so he always knows how much I make, and how much he can take from me. I’m allowed to buy groceries and a bus pass, but any remaining balance goes directly into his hands.

Thankfully, one look into my pleading eyes and Nico agreed. I don’t know much about the tax system, but enough to know that what he’s doing could possibly get him into trouble. I’ve lost track of how much Nico has put away for me, but I know my balance is slowly building. One day, it’ll help me escape this town.

One Friday after cashing my paycheck, I head to the grocery store and buy all of the items my dad has pre-approved. My list mostly consists of ramen, peanut butter, and spaghetti. I also purchase the one item that will hopefully keep my dad’s hands off of me--a bottle of whiskey. While sometimes this backfires, typically it keeps him in a better mood. It’s a risky line I walk every day.

I recently made friends with a grocery checker named Oliver, who sells me the alcohol even though I’m underage by a few years. His smile creeps me out a little bit, but if a smile is all that he’s offering, I can return that. I always ask for paper instead of plastic. It’s harder to swing a paper bag around as a weapon, like you can with a plastic bag. I’m a fast learner.