Page 24 of Babalon

“What in the absolute hell is fucking wrong with you, Nadia? Didn’t I raise you better than this?”

There it was, the blame.

Always putting the strife between the two of us on my head rather than taking any sort of accountability for the way he treated me—like trash. And no, he didn’t raise me, my neighbors have. There were so many nights I snuck out to their houses for dinner because my dad was too busy drinking himself into a stupor.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The hell you didn’t! How dare you yell at me in front of your friends, I don’t allow you to speak to me like that at home, so makes you think I would allow you to take that tone with me in public?”

“All I did was agree with you!”

I turned to scowl at him, but I was met with an explosive pain that radiated through the left side of my face, throwing me to the side and into the door. I immediately reach for my face, feeling the skin beginning to burn, my thoughts struggling to get back on track.

He just hit me.

With his hand, or his fist, I don’t know, either way he hit me.

Actually hit me!

Dad has not hit me since I was a child, and even then, that was with a belt and because I had broken a rule. Which, how do you punish a child when they are learning and not mature enough to make sound decisions. Now though? Simply raising my voice isn’t enough to warrant getting hit across the face.

Keeping my distance, I fight the tears that threaten to sear down my now-burning cheeks. Swallowing periodically, I do my best to keep them at bay, all while his raging voice echoes from his side of the cab. I am unable to focus on him, outside of a few choice words, the shock factor of what has just happened to me is too much to process right now.

“Worthless… just like your mother… should have given you away.”

What a way to talk to your child.

We were the picture of mental health, abusive parents, and poverty, bound to repeat itself time and time again until a force comes in and rearranges everything we know about life. What I would give to belong to a different family, to have been raised by my mother—whoever she was, wherever she was. I use to beg thenight sky to send her back to me, or to lead me to her, so I could change my life but she never showed. I am stuck here, with this man who loathes my very existence; the very one who has just slapped me, his only child.

He raved all the way back to the house, until tires screeched across the pavement as we whipped into the drive way. If we were any other family on this road, our neighbors may have been concerned with the commotion, but sadly, this is normal. Domestic disturbances, to the degree the city cops knew who we are, but not once did they ever consider pulling me out of here and saving me from this life.

The fuck were the watch dogs for if they never protected me?

Grabbing the door handle, I try to escape as quickly as I can, but dad reached over and snagged the collar of my shirt. Yanking me back into the truck, the cotton around my neck making me choke, his free hand grabs my face to the point his fingertips start digging into my now tear-trailed face. He glares down at me, disdain in every ounce of the words he growled out next.

“Do I make myself clear, Nadia? You so much as step out of line, not do what I say, and I will throw you the fuck out of my house. You can live in the damn gutter, just like your mom. You will get a job, you will hand over your money, and you will keep that god damn mouth shut.”

“Y—yes Sir,” was all I could manage, my body going limp, unwilling to fight back. My face is throbbing, a headache settling deep in my skull, and I am a whole sissy when it comes to pain which he just keeps causing more and more of.

Staring back at him, eyes filled to the brim with tears, I look at the man that was supposed to care for me. The person who was supposed to protect me from the world and help me grow into a better person; instead of love and adoration, all I can see is unbridled hatred.

When he shoves me, I nearly fell backward out of the semi-open truck door, barely catching myself on the handle and the back of the seat. My stomach leaping into my throat at the sudden feeling of falling, provoking a wave of nausea to roll through me. Righting myself, I finally manage to jump out of the truck and rush to the front door. Just as I start to push through it, the girl from earlier in the day steps out with a disgusted look on her face, like she is playing the role of an unimpressed parent.

Who the hell does this bitch think she is? She won’t be here past morning-time if I know my dad like I think I do.

Glaring at her in return, I make my way into the house and down the darkened hallway to my room. I could not scurry into the safe space fast enough, locking the flimsy door behind me. Like it could ever prevent my bull of a father from barreling through it if he wished. He hasn’t in the past, but if I’ve learned anything from tonight, it was that shit is changing, so he likely would break my door down if I’m not careful.

Shedding my clothes, I look at my reflection in the mirror over my desk for a moment, seeing dad’s hand print appearing on my face along with my bicep. I know my arm will bruise, but I sure as fuck hope my face don’t; the longer I stare, the more I realize I don’t belong here. Half the time I don’t want to continue breathing, but I’m not going to puss my way out of this life, I am going to suck it up and deal with it.

‘Pull myself up by the boot straps,’ says the boomers.

If I was supposed to make it out of Hazelwood, then it will happen.

There is no wishing upon a star here.

Dragging on my night clothes, I snatch up the water bottle I keep close to my bed before digging through the single drawer in my rickety desk, where I hid my ibuprofen. I know I’m going to be in pain tomorrow if I didn’t get a head start on it. Pouring a few pills out of the container onto my palm, I toss them back andchase them with a drink of water, swallowing quickly in hopes to avoid the chemical taste they tend to leave behind.

Climbing into my small twin-sized bed, I pull my thin blankets over my head and sigh. Waiting quietly, I listen for any noise outside of my room, hoping for sleep to take hold. When it didn’t, sorrow set in to the point that I cried myself to sleep.

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