By Valerie K
“What's wrong, Valerie?” She bent down so we were eye-to-eye. I hate when adults do that.
“Are you afraid to tell me?”
Silence.
“Where did you get these scars from?”
I wanted to scream:
None of ya' fucking business. I’m tired of people asking me what’s wrong. You can’t do shit to help me. I have too many problems; I don’t even know where to begin. I know the school district’s teacher budget is not paying you enough to deal with what I’m going through.
I got home. More questions.
“How was school today?” he asked me.
“Good.” I whispered.
“Did you behave? I don’t want to hear any fucking complaints on my email today.”
I walked away. I lay in my bed, and stared up at the ceiling. I looked to my left and to my right, walls. I was trapped. I was alone.
I wanted to cry, but no tears came. I knew he was coming; he always came around this time. Sometimes if I was really good, I could count down until that horrifying moment when he got up here.
5…4…3…2…Nothing.
I tried again.
5…4…3…
********Boom*******
He burst through my door before I got to two.
“Get the fuck up.”
I complied.
“Take your clothes off.”
I looked at him twice, my eyes begging him not to make me do it. I hoped that he would look at me and see his little girl and realize that this wasn’t right. But he didn’t.
“Take off your clothes!” he yelled again.
I did. I felt like shit. I was humiliated. “Go get your notebook and write this…” he paused for a minute giving me time to get my stuff. “Hurry up, I don’t have all day!
"Now write this…”
I wrote while he talked, “’Humble: feeling or showing respect and deference towards other people. I will not be prideful, I will have humility.’ Write it till your fucking hand bleeds.”
So I wrote. Tears fell on my paper but I kept going. My hand never did bleed but I was waiting until he fell asleep so I could take a break without him knowing.
I looked at the clock. 8:35 pm. 12 more hours till school.
Just then he came upstairs and asked for my paper. I prepared myself because this was usually the time he was drunk. By this time he was so drunk he could care less about punching me as hard as he would have if I didn’t write enough.
An unexpected smack came across my face. I fell to the ground. He hit me. He kicked me; I wanted so bad to cry but I refused to let him know he was getting to me.
I looked at the clock. 8:36.
My side hurt, it was a burning sensation that only grew worse when I moved. But I had to move in order to protect my other side from blows.
I curled into a ball. He kicked me in the thighs over and over and over again.
It was still 8:36. I closed my eyes and talked to God, hoping that would pass the time. I told Him that I forgave my dad, even though he didn’t say he was sorry. I told Him that I promised not to hate my dad. I asked God to change my dad into one that wasn’t so angry.
Still 8:36.
At 9:02 he left my room.
Eleven and one-half more hours until school. I couldn’t wait.
I have never felt so alone.
Valerie K is a pseudonym for a writer in upstate New York who suffered abuse as a child. This piece is the first of a "Flip Your Script" pair of writings; stay tuned for Part Two, when Valerie steps into the role of her abusing father. "Flip Your Script" is a new writing exercise I developed to help individuals use narrative, or story-telling, as a way of finding peace and forgiveness in difficult personal relationships. To read more about Flip Your Script, check out this earlier post.
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