Page 3 of Bound By Threads
Then, one day, they turned on me, too, leaving me alone.
My stop comes into view,and I’m greeted by the familiar sight of my house. I hold up my hand to thank the bus driver, step off the bus, and walk towards my home. The smell of weed lingers in the air, and the sounds of shouting from inside my house make me want to turn around and go to the beach.
The sand and water have become the only place I can breathe—memories of Dad driving us down and spending hours with me scouring for seashells. Mom never joined us, but it was Dad’s and I’s time, and I loved it.
I’m jolted back to reality with a crash of a bottle from inside, and I look at the house we once took so much pride in and what it’s become.
The paint peels away from the outside. The roof is covered in moss, and the rusty gutters dangle precariously. Weeds twist and curl through the cracks in the concrete. The windows are covered in a layer of dust and grime, and the panes have a few cracks.
Broken, just like me.
Knowing I can’t stay outside any longer, I walk up the path and twist the door handle. I’m barely through the door when the arguing stops, and the silence that follows has my gut churning —silence in this home never means anything good.
The scent of liquor and the acrid smell of burning plastic tells me that they got another drop from their dealer.
I clutch my backpack tighter and walk towards the living room, where they are both sitting on opposite sofas.
Dad lies slumpedon the sofa, his eyes hollow and distant, an echo of the man I once looked up to. His hands tremble, a bottle of vodka clutched in his hands as if it’s his lifeline, and the crack pipe on the coffee table in front of him lets me know he’s giving in... again.
He swore he would stop after he nearly choked me to death over a month ago. I can still feel the phantom pain of his fingers digging into my neck; the bruises have only just faded, and I know the self-deprecating is just going to make him worse.
Mom sits on the sofa across from him, barely clothed, surrounded by a haze of smoke. Her cheeks are hollow, no longer interested in food, as the alcohol and drugs fill her.
She lazily drags her eyes to me, a sneer contorting her face. “Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” she slurs, her tone sharp. “Not that it matters. We’ve been having our own fun without you.”
She leans back against the sofa, glass in hand, eyes glazed and unfocused.
Dad sits silently, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Leave Scar alone,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mom cuts him a glare so harsh that I know he’s going to pay for opening his mouth later, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him until he clutches the neck of the bottle tighter and takes a large mouthful of the foul liquid.
“Why should I?” she laughs cruelly. “She’s a dud. A daughter who doesn’t speak. Who would rather hide away on the beach collecting her pathetic seashells than have friends?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever does.
Not since that night.
I clench my fists, determined not to think about that night. The memories threaten to spill over, but I push them back, focusing instead on the heavy breathing coming from Mom as she works herself into a rage.
Dad glances back up, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment, and I see a flicker of something — apology, perhaps, or regret. He returns to his silence, but his knuckles whiten on the neck of the bottle as he glares at the side of Mom’s head.
“Nothing to say?” Mom taunts, “Nothing at all? Not a please, no mommy? You used to beg so prettily once upon a time before you lost your voice.”
My head rears back as if she slapped me, and tears sting my eyes that I desperately blink away, not wanting her to see me cry. She doesn’t get the privilege of knowing her words hurt.
“Enough,” Dad finally says, his voice shaky but firm. “She’s been through enough. We all have.”
Mom scoffs, rolling her eyes so hard I swear she can see the back of her head. “Spare me the drama. You’re no saint. You had your hands around her neck a month ago when she got in the way.”
“I…” Dad stutters, “I never meant that. Scar knows that, don’t you, baby?”
Their voices start to rise, hands flying about wildly as the drugs and alcohol begin to mix.
There is no begging for them to get better anymore. Nine-year-old me learned that the hard way.
My legs threaten to buckle from under me as Dad continues to beg me to listen to him. Promising he never meant for it to go that far, but the fear I felt as his hands wrapped around my neck has me fleeing the room.
Mom’s mocking voice follows me, her manic laughter echoing down the hallway as I escape to my room. Every step has my legs threatening to give out.
