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Day 6295
I sit in my bedroom, unable to block out the sounds. The yelling, the screaming at each other. Smash! I hear plates being broken downstairs. For just one day, I wish I heard them laughing, or singing, or anything. I wait until I hear the front door slam before I go downstairs to see how my mother is. I walk down the old stairs into the freezing cold lounge. Through the breakfast bar, I see my mother sitting on the faded vinyl, her head resting in her hands, her body hunched over her legs and blood trickling down the side of her fingers. She hears me walking into the room and looks up at me, brushes the tears from her cheeks and smiles.
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Money. That’s another thing that plays in my head. I hate how it controls everything. It starts most of their fights. I can only imagine how different things would be for Mom and I if we didn’t have to worry about it. She would actually smile for once, not feel like a prisoner in her own home. We could walk about the house not worrying about how his day at work went. Things would be just different.
I can still hear them yelling downstairs and then I hear smashing. I don’t know if he’s hit her, or a wall, or what, but I start crying. I hate it. I can’t control the tears that fall down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them away because I know the dry spaces will soon be covered again. So I just sit and wait and hope he goes to bed soon so the river stops flowing. I put on my favourite film, The Wild One. I imagine I’m Johnny Strabler and the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club are my gang. I’d drive far away like he does. Never knowing where he is going. Just always away somewhere different. I lie in bed thinking about how my life would be if I was Marlon Brando. When I look at the clock, it’s 2:34 am. I turn off my lamp and try to fall asleep.
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