Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (2 page)

His eyes are bloodshot. His knuckles, white from the strain of withholding his anger. Mom screams behind him, pulling at his arms to try and divert his attention away from me. I just stand there. I can feel my body threatening to go numb.

This all happens so quickly, in the span of a few minutes. He struggles to keep focus on me—his mind having a hard time keeping up with the rest of his body. I know this body language well. Someone will pay for a mistake. The mental checklist roars through my mind: progress report came in today—I made straight A’s. When I got home, I spent two hours cleaning the house—just like he always expected.

And then the realization.

Oh.

This time, it wasn’t me.

Right behind him is my mom. My mom with some other man. I can’t even compute what this

means I’m so confused. I’m confused and dizzy and terrified because I see him moving toward me.

“
Dad, what are you...”

Apparently it
was
me because my dad starts throwing punches as soon as he’s close enough I can see his drunken eyes.

I feel a fist collapse against my cheek and I gasp.

I can’t process my mom standing with some guy because the blows keep coming. The blows keep coming and he keeps yelling and my mom keeps crying. That guy just stands there.

I ask myself:
What kind of person just stands there
?

“You did this, you fucking whore. You’re nothing.
Nothing
!”

His hands find places to grip and slap and claw that no one would ever see. There will be bruises.

There is already blood. My mother weakly argues with my father, begging him to stop because the carpet has enough stains.

She mentions nothing about him hitting her daughter.

And then Pacey runs into the room, screaming and crying and pulling at dad.

“You’re hitting sissy, daddy! You’re hitting her and hurting her and you promised. You

promised!
” He screams. Dad pushes him out of the way and he falls against my bed, looking at me.

We catch each other’s eyes and he wipes his arm across his nose, fighting the terror, chest heaving. I shake my head and whisper
go!
and as I see him turn and leave I know he’s going to hide in his closet.

I break free and push my way past mom and mystery-man. I really don’t know where I’m headed; I just know I need to get out. My cheek still burns with the shape of his fist. I reach up and touch the bruise forming. It’s tender. Swollen. I turn back around to see if anyone is following and trip over my little brother’s toy truck. Falling against the wall, I jam my fingers trying to break my fall. I don’t have time to think about it though, because I can hear the rage building in my room.

“What the fuck, man? Are you insane? You just beat your daughter, you worthless bastard!”

“Tyler, I swear. Don’t you
dare
tell me what to do when you’re the one coming into
my
home and screwing
my
wife and ruining
my
family. They’re mine, you hear?
Mine.”

So that’s his name.

I don’t even have time to think about what just happened. It will only take a few minutes before my dad realizes I’m gone. I run out the door and I hear my mom in the background, crying.

“You ruin everything. Everything.” Her words slur together. I hear a body crash against a wall and more screams and don’t want to wait around to see who did what.

I fight the bile forcing itself up my throat. I will not let him win. I shoot a furtive glance back to my house, sitting eerily silent in contrast to the raging argument heard so loud just seconds before. I crumple to the grass in defeat. I’m shivering from the chill of the wet blades, but I simply wipe my cheek and pull my hoodie over my head to protect my skin from the burning of frozen water against the most recent scrapes and bruises.

It happened again. How could anyone ever want me? How could anyone ever find me attractive?

I close my eyes as the tears start to fall freely, melting the ice around me.

Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I am nothing. The internal record player replays the events of the last hour and I start to wonder. How was my mother’s mistake my fault? Why did my father choose to take his anger out on me? I try to push the thoughts out that make me feel like nothing more than a human punching bag and reach for positive memories. Staring at tiny blades of grass glistening with night frost I force these thoughts back and forth through my head.

Just breathe,
I tell myself.
Just breathe.

I stay there for about thirty minutes. A bit longer than normal, but my father doesn’t disappoint—I know the routine: anger, remorse, forced forgiveness and guilt. Compulsiveness at its finest. I hear his footsteps before I smell him. I take a deep breath and pray for strength. I close my eyes and for a brief second pretend I’m someone else entirely.

“Stephanie?” His whisper sounds strained—like he’s fighting back the tears I know will come. I motion to him with my hand, not really wanting to get up and feel how tender and sore he made me. His face breaks through the bushes and he sees me. His shoulders collapse and for a brief second, his face is in his hands.

“Oh sweetie. Oh Stephanie. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I promised, I know. But I couldn’t help it.

Please don’t leave me. Please.” His earnest words aren’t new to my ears; it always happens this way. He drinks, we get hit, he says he can’t help it.

I hate this part more than any other—even more than the fists against skin. How can you not help it? How can you not help hitting your own flesh and blood? I don’t get it. His arms reach to lift me off the grass and I shrug him off—pain shooting up my ribs and radiating off of my knee.

“Leave me alone!” I say it without thinking.

I stop breathing.

Stupid, stupid, stupid
I think to myself, waiting for the inevitable backlash. I allowed my voice to be heard, which is the exact opposite of what my dad expects from us. Reconciliation is nothing to him.

We reunite on
his
terms. If I don’t feel like it, well.

I have to at least
act
like I want to forgive and forget.

My dad’s face twists in anger. He stands up straight—his eyes wide. You would have thought I slapped him. A sneer crawls across his face and he laughs.

“What? You want me to
leave you alone?”
The change in behavior is sudden, but not unexpected.

My father could be the poster child for a borderline personality disorder triggered by alcoholic stupor. His eyes darken and I bury my face in the grass, grimacing against the melting ice. He turns around and starts walking back to the house, grumbling about my lack of gratitude.

“You want me to leave you alone?” he shouts over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you alone. Find somewhere else to sleep tonight, you waste of space!”

I stare at his retreating figure for a half second before I realize what he was saying. I jump up and run after him, crying the whole way.

“Daddy, daddy —no wait...
please
! I…I didn’t meant it!”

My voice starts shaking. I trip on a dip in the road, landing hard on my knee. Blood immediately starts forming tiny rivers down my jeans.

“Please...” I whisper, crumpled on the ground broken.

He turns and walks toward me, a smirk on his face. Taking the hand he offers, I wince at the force he uses to yank me up. He brings his face within inches of my own, his breath pushing the hair across my face. He reaches out and grabs my arms with such brute force, tears threaten to spill out against my will. I bite my lip, fighting to keep control.

He snarls in disgust. “I regret the day you were born. You mean
nothing
to me, you little bitch.

Nothing. You’re the worst mistake of my life.”

Within seconds, my father manages to reach inside and rip open every single wound from every single harsh word ever spoken to me. His retreating figure broke my heart before. Now? I am shattered. I wiggle from his grasp and turn and walk into the house, ignoring the apparent absence of my mother. I make my way to my room, welcoming the haze starting to form around my brain.

I am nothing. I mean nothing.

Closing my eyes, I let the darkness sweep over me as the tears finally gain the freedom to take over. My body, exhausted from the night’s events, begs for rest, but my mind wants nothing of it. I spend the rest of the night in a comatose state and it’s not until the first light peeks through the corner window that I wake. With the urgency of lunacy, I shower and change clothes.

The sunrise. I need to see it. I need to remember.

I leave the house with minutes to spare and am rewarded by one of the most stunning displays of color I have ever seen. I lock the door behind me, stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and begin the long walk to school, eyes fixed to oranges and reds and pinks, fighting for a piece of the sky.

***

I see him before he sees me. He’s sitting on the bleachers—my favorite spot —talking to

someone on his cell phone. This has been our meeting place for a few weeks now, our way of starting the day together. This morning he’s wearing his typical letter jacket and jeans. I think of his scent—the way it lingers on my clothes after he holds me—and I smile, the butterflies coming to life inside. His hair falls across his forehead and he reaches up to brush it away. I stop for a few minutes and just watch him. I imagine he’s talking to his mom—who else would be up this early? Not wanting to interrupt him, I wait for awhile longer. I didn’t know if he would be here this morning because I wasn’t able to answer his phone call last night.

Last night.

My vision goes hazy as I try and push the memories away. I glance again at the sky and remind myself that today is a new day with new possibilities and hope. My eyes wander back to Kevin—he looks tired. He’s off the phone now, his eyes focusing on the clouds in the distance. His head rests in his hands and every once in awhile his left foot starts to involuntarily bounce. His nervous twitch. I smile to myself and make my way over to the bleachers. He hears my approach and lifts his head. Smiling, he reaches for my hand to help me up the stairs.

“You started early this morning.”

He tilts his head and his grin grows across his face. "Huh?”

I point to his phone, still sticking out of his pocket, and he understands.

“Oh. Yeah. That was uh, my mom.” He scratches his head sheepishly, as if he wonders whether or not he should divulge information, and then shrugs. “She just likes to know I made it to school okay.”

I raise an eyebrow and maneuver myself under his arms, away from the chill of the morning air.

He tightens the hold and pulls me closer still.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

I smile and blush, and lean forward to kiss his cheek. “Mornin” My voice is a lot deeper than normal—I cough to clear the frog out of my throat from my night spent in the frosty grass. I glance out of the corner of my eye as I sit gingerly next to him—my legs still incredibly sore from the night before. I pull my hair down across my face and attempt to make my bangs fall over my blackened eye. I feel his gaze inspecting me—noticing my wincing, my sharp intake of breath, my purposeful positioning of hair across my face...

“Your dad get a hold of you again?”

I sigh.

He always knows.

“Yeah.” I sniff to stall the fresh wave of tears, but he beats me to the punch. He doesn’t even say anything at first. He just grabs my hand and squeezes it.

“Steph...”

“Don’t Kevin, please. Not now. I can’t handle it.” I look at him through my tears and will him to understand—to not go to those places —the ones where people ask me to leave my home or to say something against the only family I’ve ever known. They don’t understand. They won’t ever understand.

It’s so much more complicated than just walking out the door.

He glances down at our fingers—now interlocked. He looks at me and gives me the crooked smile that would make me go cockeyed for the rest of the day.

“Why’d you come out here this morning?” He asked.

“To remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Hope.”

He touches the bruise on my cheek, black against the paleness of my skin, and purses his lips.

“What, Kevin?” I whisper, not sure if I want to know what he’s thinking.

This is it. He’s had enough of me. I’m too much.

“I hate that you have to live like this, Steph. No one should have to experience what you do. How do you? How have you not gone crazy? I think about my own parents and...I don’t know...it’s just so hard for me to fathom someone not experiencing the safety of a healthy family.” He takes a strand of my hair and places it behind my ear and looks at me, waiting for a reply.

“Seriously. I thought
my
family was crazy.”

I laugh. “Your family? The perfect one?”

He shakes his head, “we’re not perfect, Steph. But at least we love each other.”

I have to hand it to him—his approach is different. Instead of asking me to leave, he asks why I stay. He tries to understand. I squeeze his hand as I fight for the words, watching the sun’s rays bathing the trees in its morning glow.

“I don’t know, Kevin. I just...do. I have no choice but to survive. My brother helps—I couldn’t ever leave Pacey knowing what happens when my dad gets angry. It’s just the cards I’ve been dealt, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders complacently and look at him out of the corner of my eye, “The only thing I can do is hang on to the constants in my life - writing. Protecting Pacey. The hope of a sunrise.” I glance down at our hands and whisper. “You.”

He takes my face gently into his hands and kisses me lightly on the lips, briefly touching the scar from the night before, and the birds begin to sing—echoing across the field against the backdrop of clouds that look like fire and mirror my heart—alive and bursting with a new day.

He pulls back and looks me in the eyes. “I’m going to find a way to keep you safe, Steph. I promise.”