Alive (3 page)

Jessie’s dad was a piece of shit when she was growing up. He would always tell her one thing and never follow through with his promises. Promises of big birthday parties, promises of trips to Disney world, and the biggest promise he failed to keep was his promise to stop beating on her when he came home drunk from my mother’s bar. When he would wake up the next morning and see the bruises on her body or her black eyes, he would feel guilty and promise her all these big things. But when night rolled around again he would go back to my mother’s bar and drink himself stupid.

She doesn’t trust guys, and that’s putting it mildly. But then again, neither do I. Her dad died in drunk driving accident last year; he ran a red light and was hit head on by a semi-truck. When she heard the news she came over to my house crying hysterically, but her tears weren’t tears of sadness, they were tears of joy. She and I have a bond that not many people have. Our lives are more similar than I’d like for them to be and we deserve so much better than the cards we were dealt. After her father died, she moved in with her grandma. Her grandma is so old that she hardly pays any attention to Jessie, so she pretty much does what she wants, whenever she wants.

Her mother died a few years before from a heroin overdose; she and my mother were best friends, they grew up together just like Jessie and I did. They also shared a nasty habit. When Jessie’s mom Samantha died, my mom took it pretty hard. She started using more than she ever has, bringing guys in and out of our home, and drinking more than she ever had before. She was already drowning in her addiction, but Samantha’s death pushed her completely over the edge.

I was 15 years old the night my life changed forever. I’ll never forget the night she came home with one of her random guys from the bar. They both were beyond drunk and high on god knows what. I locked myself into my bedroom, turned my music up as loud as I could get it, and tried to block out what I knew was going on just a few doors down from me.

I woke up during the middle of the night with a major urge to use the bathroom. I cracked open my door and listened to make sure everyone was passed out; I did not want to run into my mother’s latest boy toy. After using the restroom, I walk into the kitchen to get some water and after a few seconds my skin started to crawl. I can smell him before I see him, and I immediately get a gut-sinking feeling. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen just staring at me with glassed over eyes. He’s blocking my only way of escape with his massive body, and his arms look like they could crush me with one squeeze.

“Well, what do we have here? You’re even better looking than your mother, where has she been hiding you all these nights when I come over?” He is looking at me with those glassed over eyes. Panic starts to overcome me, and my breathing starts to get shallow, and I know I am about to have to fight for my life. He slowly walks towards me and once he reaches me he runs his knuckles down my face, stopping at the base of my neck. Bile rises in my throat and I fight the urge to vomit or pass out, I’m not sure which.

“Are you going to be a good girl and play nice, or are you going to put up a struggle? Personally, I like it when they scream and beg me to stop.”

He has the most wicked smile I have ever seen a person wear. It frightens me to my core and I’m frozen in place. You know when you watch a scary movie and you keep screaming at the screen for the girl to just run away, just move your legs and get away from the danger? It’s so simple, just run away. Well, for the first time in my life, I know why the girls on screen don’t run away, I am so frozen with fear that my legs physically won’t move. My mind is screaming to run, to fight, to kick, to bite, but nothing is happening, my body isn’t responding. His hands are moving down my stomach now, and as he reaches the top of my pajama pants, I snap out of whatever trance I was in and I start to fight with everything that’s in me.

He picks me up and slams me down on the kitchen table, all the while he’s trying to get my pants down. He’s trying to rip them off of me, and I’m kicking as hard as I can. I catch a glimpse of the look on his face and to this day it still makes my stomach turn. He is looking at me like he just won the fucking lottery, my kicking and fighting has turned him on and I know what’s about to happen. There is no way I can stop it. My mother is too cracked out to help me; I bet she can’t even hear me screaming. I stop moving, stop fighting, my body goes limp and I let my mind take me somewhere else, anywhere but where I am. The pain that takes over my body when he rips through my virginity makes it hard to block out what’s happening to me, but I do the only thing that has ever calmed me. I start humming a song I heard when I was a little girl. I start praying that he will stop, that his phone will ring and he will go answer it. I pray that anything would happen, but nothing does and he doesn’t stop. That night I lost any faith in god that I thought I had.

Chapter 3

“Abs, please don’t make me beg. Pretty please will you go to the party with me tonight? I need you there.” Jessie’s pout is full on right now.

“Stop pouting, it isn’t a good look for you. Jessie, you know parties aren’t really my thing. I always feel so awkward and out of place when I go.”

“Oh, please. You are one of the hottest girls I know, even though you don’t seem to think so. Even with your punk rock style, multi colored hair, and black attire, you look better than almost all the girls at our school. Aside from me, of course.” She winks at me and goes back to her task of getting ready.  “Quit being so uptight and let your walls down a little bit and try to have fun and let's enjoy our senior year of high school.”

I chunk a pillow at her head and mess up her perfect hair, which earns me a murderous glare. “I am not uptight, I just don’t like being in big groups of people. What’s so wrong with that?” I shrug my shoulders and throw my hands up. “Fine, I’ll go with you tonight, but if I get bored and the music sucks, I’m outta there.” My mind begins to wander towards Adam, and I wonder if he will be there tonight. I remember hearing about this party the first day of school. Why am I even wondering where he will be? I’m supposed to not care.

“Yay, you’re the best, you know that, right?” She squeals and pulls me into a tight hug.

“Yeah, I know. But you owe me. I’m dragging you to a concert tomorrow night, and I don’t want to hear any complaining.” She hates the type of music I like, so bringing her to a show is a perfect way to pay me back.

“Ugh, fine. I’ll go to one show, but that’s it. I can’t stand that shit you listen to. I don’t understand why you like it. If I can’t shake my ass to the music and if it doesn’t have a good beat to get me dancing, then I just can’t get into it.” I pretend to ignore her insult about my music. Music that isn’t played by an instrument just isn’t music if you ask me. Sure, DJ’s can create pretty cool beats with their little spin machine things I guess, but real music is made with instruments, and lyrics, and words, and emotion. Music is my escape. It silences the world and all my worries. Bob Marley said it best, “One good thing about music is that when it hits you, you feel no pain.” And I couldn’t agree more. Music has been engrained into me since I was a little girl.

I grew up in a bar, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. My parents bar was called McCarthy's. Every Friday night my dad would hire local bands just waiting to catch their big break. I absolutely loved Friday nights. Listening to the bands was one of my favorite things to do. My dad made sure to lock the door behind the bar, and I wasn’t allowed to leave my spot without telling him. I would sit behind the bar while my mom and dad made drinks for their customers. Dad would slide the drink my way, and I’d add one of those little red straws to their drink, grab a napkin, and then give it to the person who ordered it. It was my one and only job, and I made sure I did that job well.

“Don’t forget the napkin, pumpkin,” Daddy always said.

“Sorry, Daddy.” Then I'd smile up at my dad; grab a napkin, which I forgot, and give the drink to one of my daddy’s friends. “Here you go Tiny, Jack and Coke, just how you like it.” He smile at me and take his drink. Everyone who was a regular at the bar knew who I was. I had about 20 big biker guys looking out for me, and even though I was in a bar, I never felt safer.

Some new customers would come in and give my parents shit for having a child in a bar. My Dad didn’t even bat an eye before saying, “If you don’t like the fact that my daughter is in my bar then you can close your tab and go somewhere else.” I never saw what was wrong with me being there; I enjoyed putting straws in people’s drinks and listening to the music. Now that I’m a little older, maybe it was weird to have a 7 year old in a bar, but again, what do I know.

My dad and I were always really close. He was the center of my whole world. He used to play his guitar and sing a song for me every night before bed. It was a song he wrote called “Dear Abby.” I loved that song. After he sang to me he would lean over, kiss my forehead, and tell me to have the best damn dreams I could think of.

“Daddy, don’t say damn,” I'd giggle. “I said damn in school yesterday, and I got in a lot of trouble. My teacher said that was an inappropriate word,” I said with a frown.

“Well, you just so happen to come from an inappropriate family, and we say words like damn around here,” he'd say with a wink. “But maybe we should refrain from using that word at school, what do you think?”

I remember giggling and jumping into his lap. “OK daddy, I think I can do that.”

My mother would always stand in the doorway while my dad sang to me. She always wore this content smile, and she would look at the two of us with such adoration in her eyes. Even at a young age, I knew my mom and dad were in love. You could just tell by the way they looked at each other. I used to catch them dancing in the kitchen when they thought I had gone to bed. I would sit in the doorway and just watch them dance. He would twirl her around, and dip her low so that her hair touched the floor.

One particular night dad had a band playing called The Twisted Monkeys. The lead singer was wearing an old worn out black t-shirt that said Twisted Monkeys on the front, jeans with about ten holes in the legs, and a pair of combat boots. When they started playing I was completely captivated by their music. It was classic rock, bluegrass, folk and a touch of soul. It sounded perfect. When the lead singer began to sing, I fell head over heels in love with him. Now, I know I was only 7, but at the time I thought I was in love. From the moment he opened his mouth to sing, I fell in love with music. I wanted to learn to play the guitar, learn to sing just like he did, and I wanted to write my own songs. So then maybe one day he would let me play in his band.

While I was listening to this man sing his song with his beautiful voice, I heard shouting from behind me. I turned around and saw a big group of people fighting and pushing each other. People were screaming and running towards the exit.  The band stopped playing once they realize there was a commotion, and I remember feeling sad that he stopped singing. His singing made me happy. His singing made me smile.

I hear my dad yelling from somewhere behind the bar. “Abigail, pumpkin, go upstairs into your room OK, I want you to stay there until I come and get you. Go hurry, NOW!” He’s shouting at me, so I peel my eyes away from the stage and start running to my room. As I’m making my way to the back of the bar I get knocked down by two large men fighting in front of me. I cry out in pain once I hit the ground and the pain shooting up my arm is intense and I begin to cry. I notice that blood is dripping down my arm and I realize that I fell onto some broken glass. I get up and try to run in the opposite direction, but I can’t seem to get away from all the fighting. I am shouting for my daddy, but I don’t see him anywhere.

I get knocked down again, but this time I scramble underneath one of the bar tables as fast as I can and I try to hide. I keep thinking over and over, where is my Daddy, I want my daddy.

I start to hear gun shots being fired and panic starts to consume my body. Before I even realize what’s happening, I am being pulled out from under the table. I start to panic and scream and try to get away, but when I hear his voice I immediately stop struggling and a sense of calm comes over me. It’s the man from the stage, the man with the beautiful voice.

“It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.  Let’s get you to your room where it’s safe OK?” He calmly says. How can he be so calm? I’ve never been so scared in my life.

“Where are my mommy and daddy?” I start to cry again. I am having a hard time breathing, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

“They are trying to stop the fight, they will come find you soon. Once this is over they will be right up. Don’t be scared. Try real hard to be brave, OK? Deep breaths, in and out. That’s right, keep breathing,” he says soothingly. He starts humming a song while he darts me across the bar to my bedroom, and I realize it’s the song he was singing on stage before the fight broke out. His humming makes me feel safe, and my breathing immediately begins to even out.

He drops me off at the bottom of the stairs and tells me to run upstairs, get in the closet and hide, and not to come out until my mommy and daddy come and get me. And just like that he was gone. I stayed in that closet for I don’t know how long, as I waited for my mom and dad. My mom comes in and finds me sometime later. The look on her face is a look I’ve never seen on her before; she can’t stop crying, and she’s shaking. She looks empty, lost, scared.

“Mommy, what happened? Where is daddy? Why are you crying?” She reaches down and picks me up and tells me that Daddy won’t be coming home. He was shot and killed in the fight. Her lip is busted, her eye is swollen, and her shirt is ripped. I look down at her and she is covered in blood. My life has never been the same since that night, and neither has my mom's. His death was her undoing. She couldn’t deal with losing her husband, and turned to alcohol and drugs to numb her pain. That night when she held me and we both cried was the last time she showed me an ounce of sympathy. It was like her soul went with him the moment he left this earth. That was the night she stopped being the mother that I knew and loved.