The rest of the day went by in a blur. Sadly, Jason wasn't in any of my other classes, so it was like any other school day: taking notes, taking quizzes, and getting bullied, of course.
When I went home, I found my mother standing by the front door expectantly.
Her flat brown hair was in a tangled, matted mass at the nape of her neck, fingernails dirty and long. Her teeth were yellow, her eyes unfocused and crazy, and a malicious smile had glued itself to her lips
She reeked of alcohol, of the horrible thing that had turned my life into a living nightmare.
"Where were you?" she asked, voice cracking, advancing on me.
"S-School. Just school," I stuttered, averting my gaze. She always told me to look away from her, so she didn't see the disgusting blue of my father.
Quiet.
Hesitantly, I glanced up again, a little confused.
The moment she saw the blue of my eyes, her scowl intensified and she raised her hand. I flinched, bracing myself for the hit to come.
And it did come. The palm of her hand struck my face, her uneven fingernails leaving behind streaks of pain on my skin.
Tears began flowing out of me. I doubled over, and eventually collapsed, as I received hit after blow after scratch.
What hurt more were the words she yelled in my ear – cruel, loud, treading on what little self-esteem I had left. I could feel my heart aching as they lodged themselves in my chest like pieces of shrapnel.
Finally, when she was tired, she sent me to my room. Coughing, I picked myself up from the ground and went upstairs as quickly as I could manage.
I made my way into my bedroom, about ready to collapse on my bed, to find Lucas, my younger brother, standing there with a sympathetic look in his eyes. He handed me rubbing alcohol, bandaids, and bandages. I thanked him softly before telling him to please leave the room.
When he was gone, I slipped my sweater off and padded over to the head-to-toe mirror in the corner of my room. My stomach turned as I saw myself.
My blonde hair had escaped my bun, falling in messy waves to my elbows. Tired, glassy sky blue eyes gazed back at me, as if resolved to what they saw.
There were small, thin scars everywhere on my skin, like the swirling tails of galaxies. At least, that's what I compared them to so I wouldn't wallow too much in self-pity. Galaxies. That's all they were.
Of their own accord, my fingers lifted and gently traced the edge of an especially long scar trailing from the bottom of my rib cage to my belly button. I winced, remembering how I had gotten that one, a month after my father had left us without warning. My mom had already turned to drink to dull her pains...
"Come here, right now!"
My mother's shout echoed through the lifeless house. Heart hammering with anxiety, I scrambled off the couch and ran into the kitchen to find Mom standing behind the kitchen island. Her lips curled up with revulsion as I entered and a pang of hurt made me gnaw on my lip.
"Emma," came from behind me.
I turned around to see Tyra, my older sister, leaning against the wall, regarding me hatefully. For some reason, Tyra had always hated me, coming after me for one tiny reason after another.
"T–Tyra..." I glanced back at our mother. "Mom... What's going on?"
Suddenly, Mom palmed a large butcher's knife resting on the counter in front of her.
"Mom?" I breathed, eyes wide and horrified. "What's–"
She lunged at me. Fueled by adrenaline, I twisted to the side. Gasping, I clutched my stomach and stumbled back, blood dripping out between my fingers.
For a moment, I thought I was going to die. I thought she'd stabbed me. White as a ghost, I looked down – and saw that the knife had cut a large gash from my rib cage to my belly button. I was relieved for a moment, but then the pain hit me like a truck and I collapsed, staring up at the ceiling and hiccuping weakly.
I saw a flicker of dark movement, and craned my neck to look . Tyra was no longer behind me, lying unconscious on the couch. Another flash – to my left. Mom suddenly crumpled, a dark stranger standing in her place.
Shadows covered the stranger's face. Who is it? I desperately wanted to ask, but blood loss made me dizzy.
Black edged my vision. My fingers, slippery with my blood, slid off of my wound, blood flowing freely now. I felt hands grip my arms. I went weightless, picked up by the dark stranger for a moment, then pressure on my back. The last thing I remembered before drifting into unconscious was the feeling of him tending to my wounds.
A drop of blood ran down my cheek from a scratch Mom had gouged into me, tickling my skin and bringing me back to present. I gulped down deep breaths, trying to shake myself out of the vivid flashback.
I didn't think the scratch on my cheek would leave a scar, thankfully. My face was scar-free so far – Mom was at least being slightly careful to avoid hurting me in places people would see – and I didn't want to break that streak. I cleaned up, disinfected, and wrapped bandages around all my new wounds. I slipped on pajamas and voila! No one could tell I'd been beaten by my own mom; it looked more like I'd had an accident, fallen off my bike, tripped over a rock and crashed onto the sidewalk.
Unless they looked straight into my eyes and saw the pain lying there...