Ugly(13)

“Please,” I cry through the heavy tears. I’m gulping for breath and wish for this to be over. To finally just end.

After what feels like an eternity, the hitting finally ends. Carefully I lower my arms from around my head and try to peep out to see where Dad is and what he’s doing.

The woman with him is now standing beside him, her eyebrows knit together as she stares at me. Dad’s looking down at me, his top lip curled into a snarl.

“She didn’t do nothin’,” says the woman.

“Shut up,” Dad replies, while still looking at me.

He wipes the back of his hand over his forehead, his evil eyes still glued to me. Dad spits on the floor and he straightens his back. “You’ve made a fucking mess. You’re bleeding,” he says as flicks his chin at me.

Through the thick tears I try and focus on the welts on my arms and legs. Some are cut and are bleeding, a few are just a trickle, but a few have quite a bit of blood seeping out of them.

“I’m so-sorry,” I stutter through the heavy breathing.

“You will be.” He takes a step toward me, rears his hand back making a fist.

It seems like an eternity. My face feels on fire as the punches continue. Please God, take my life.

Suddenly, I feel nothing. No pain, no pressure and no sadness. Just a beautiful veil of black that falls over me. I begin to float and find sanctuary in the peace I’ve finally been blessed with.

Is this how death feels? I like it here.





When I try and open my eyes, they hurt. I can barely open them without pressure pounding away in my head. I blink a few times, trying to focus and to see where I am.

I’m lying in my family room, exactly where I was when Dad started laying into me.

There’s a heavy buzzing in my ears, a massive thump squeezing the inside of my head. Blinking, I manage to focus on the hole in the wall and slowly drag my eyes from it.

From somewhere close to me, I can hear a predatory grunting. The sound of constant and fevered desperation. There’s also a female who’s moaning in rhythm to the grunting.

“You feel so good, Stanley,” she says¸ in drawn out gasps.

Trying to be as quiet as I can, I move to my hands and knees, attempting to find my balance. The thrusting continues, and I can hear the vulgar sound of my father having sex with the woman he brought home.

Shaking and unsteady I manage to drag my body toward my room. The sounds coming from the family room are not letting up as they continue their sex-fest.

“You really need to use that pussy of yours, make yourself some money, you ugly piece of shit,” Dad pants as he keeps propelling his cock into the woman.

“Leave her alone,” says the woman. “Just keep your eyes focused on me.” I turn to look at them as I drag my broken and bruised body through the opening to my bedroom. The woman looks at me, and in that one moment, that one single atom in time she sees me.

Her eyes connect with mine, and she notices me. Her eyebrows slightly draw together and she winks at me. She turns her head, brings her arm up to put her hand on the side of Dad’s face, essentially blocking his view of me.

“Don’t look at her, she’s a retard. She deserves everything she gets,” he says before smashing his mouth down on hers.

I keep crawling, and hide in the closet. The journey to get there has been nothing short of excruciatingly painful, each movement filled with pain that shoots straight through to my bones. Every breath causes a severe ache so deep, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to breathe normally again.

Remembering the phone Trent gave me, I feel for it inside my jacket where I hid it and finally grab it. My hands are shaking so badly I can’t manage to turn it on. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to dial it, even if I can power it up.

I keep blinking, trying to calm my shaking down so my bloodied hands will work. My heart’s pounding starts to ease and my pulse slows until my body is back to almost normal.

Turning the phone on, I look down at the backlight and keep my eyes focused on the small cell. The rusty smell of blood fills my nose, and I wipe at it, trying to get that smell away. The rich crimson clings to me, my hands are covered and small droplets are falling to my jeans.

Struggling to remember what Trent showed me, I finally dial his number.

“Lily,” he answers virtually right away.

“I need help,” I say in a thick, gravelly voice.

“Where are you?” I hear a beep and a car engine starting.

“I’m in my closet. I don’t feel so good. I think I’m going to be sick.” My stomach contracts. The tightening is twisting in my tummy and vomit rises rapidly to the back of my throat. It sits like an orange lodged in my neck, not moving in any direction.