Page 11 of The Awakening

Rubbing my eyes, I try to focus on something, anything, to allow me to figure out where the hell I’m at. When my eyes finally adjust, I recognize my surroundings, and my stomach drops. I’m in the basement. How did I get here? Sitting up off the cold, wet concrete floor, I look down at myself. I’m in nothing but an oversized shirt I remember getting from the thrift store and my panties. Nothing else, no pants, no socks, no shoes, nothing. No wonder I’m freezing. My body is wet from the floor, and the smell of mold mixed with mildew fills the small space.

I remember this place.

It’s a small basement, maybe ten by ten, with nothing around but a broken washer and dryer that hasn’t been used in years. The overhead light is one exposed light bulb that hangs from a cord attached to the ceiling. It doesn’t illuminate much but gives me just enough to see myself as well as the empty room. There are no windows to give off natural light The small set of five steps consists of old, rotted wood that looks as though the next person to step on will fall right through.

I remember this place.

Standing from my sitting position, I shiver when my feet hit the floor, and a wave of cold shoots up from my feet to my legs and throughout my body. It’s so cold. Wrapping my arms around my body, I’m hit with a sharp pain coming from my forearms. Releasing my hold, I look down, examining my arms, and notice the familiar cigar burns my father gave me before bringing me down here. After peppering my skin with cigar burns, my father locked me down here. I can’t remember how long it was. All I remember was how cold I was for the entirety of being locked up.

My skin is torched; the skin around the edges of the burns has turned dry and charred. The middle of the burns are still inflamed and red, each one screaming in pain, while some have now started to ooze pus—no doubt infected from this filthy place. I close my eyes and try to recollect this memory. How long was I here for? What happened down here? Is there more torture to come? It’s been so long, and I’ve managed to disassociate from this horrific memory, and now I’ve forgotten the outcome. I wrap my arms around my body once again, but this time, I am careful not to rub the burns against my wet shirt.

The handle to the door starts to turn, and I stop breathing. The small room echoes with the jiggle of the handle, and whoever is on the other side is having a hard time unlocking the door. Just when I think the person is about to give up, the door violently swings open, crashing into the wall.

My dad.

My stupidly drunk father stands in the doorway, frustration etched across his face from the difficulty of trying to unlock the door. Being drunk makes a simple task much harder to do by the looks of it.

“You’re still breathing, huh, kid?” His words slur as he stumbles through the doorway, clutching a bottle of some cheap whiskey. I don’t respond. I stand there watching as he takes each step carefully so as not to fall over from his drunken state. With each step, my father becomes more and more illuminated by the small light. When he steps into full view, the wave of this memory comes barreling down on me like a fucking freight train.

My breathing picks up as the memory of this event plays like a movie in my mind. My broken nose, my black eyes, four broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion are all the injuries this man is about to cause me. My eyes start to sting as the realization of the pain to come hits me in full force.

“You think you’ve learned your lesson now? You’re not special, Sloan. Remember that. I’ve given you everything! A roof over your head, food, a room! You should be thanking me every fucking day!” The air is knocked from my lungs as my father punches me with all his force straight in my gut. I can’t breathe as I crumple to the floor, holding my stomach tight. I try sucking in air, but he pulls me up by my hair and lands another punch. Crack. My nose crunches beneath his fist as blood sprays across my face.

“You should be worshipping me, you little bitch!” I can’t remember what I’d done to make him this mad, that is, if I did anything at all. I was always his punching bag when he became belligerent. I was the one constant he could beat on, treat like garbage, and take out all his anger on. I was his escape from his own pain inside.

Another fist lands on my side, and I hear the crack of a rib before I collide with the concrete again. It’s like I’m reliving all the pain again. With every punch, every bone that cracks—I can feel it all. A heavy boot comes down on my side as more bones cracking echoes in the small space. How am I here? Tears fall from my eyes as sharp pains shoot through me like electricity. Everything hurts. Everything feels like it’s broken. Blow after blow after blow has me wishing I was dead all over again. The attack stops for a moment, allowing me to catch my breath as my father takes a large swig from his whiskey bottle, breathing heavily between sips as if beating me to a pulp is a workout for him. I want to die.

Focus on me.

His voice is so clear, so close, as if he’s lying right next to me on the floor.

Focus on me, Sloan.

Colson.

Closing my eyes hard, I see golden skin, hazel eyes, long blond hair, and one dimple. One heart-wrenching dimple. Another kick to my side has the image disappearing as quickly as it came. I moan as the aches of my ribs make it hard to breathe.

Focus on me! the voice says again, but louder this time.

I open my eyes and see a boot coming towards me again, but before it can reach me, I roll to my other side, narrowly avoiding another bone-crushing blow.

“You fucking coward!” I hear my father’s voice boom through the room as his boot meets the concrete.

Focus on me.

Colson, Colson, Colson. I say his name over and over in my head as I find the strength to stand up, the pain travels all over my body. I make it to my feet just in time for my father to punch me once again across my cheek. I stumble but don’t fall. I remain on my feet, unsteady but still standing.

Golden skin, hazel eyes, bright smile. He’s with me. I can feel him. The sudden gust of cold air dances through my hair in a quick burst. Colson. Standing as tall as I can manage with my broken ribs, I stare deep into my father’s black eyes.

“Cowards are people who choose to beat up on the vulnerable. From where I’m standing, it looks to me like you’re the coward. You fucking piece of shit.” I have never in my life spoken to my father in such a brazen manner before, but something about this moment feels different. I feel different.

This isn’t real.

I tell myself this can’t be real. I’ve already lived this moment in my life. This can’t be real. The look my father gives me is that of a starving bear after he’s hibernated all winter. Anger. Frustration. Rage screams through his hollow eyes, and I know at this moment I’m going to survive this. I’m bleeding, bruised, and broken, but I will not let this man take anything more from me than he already has. Fuck him.

“You think you’re brave, do you? I’ll teach you what it’s like to be brave. Jerry, Michael, come down here. I’ve got something for ya!” Jerry and Michael? As I stand there staring at my father, both his friends come up from behind, each giving a devilish grin as they approach me from each side.

No. No. I won’t let this happen again. Not now. As the two men close in on me, I back up with each of their steps until my back is against the wall. Greedy, calloused hands grab my arms as they hold me still. Thrashing and kicking against their holds, I see my father approaching me with a cigar tucked between his lips.

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