Fantasy Drawings

 

Chapter 1: Fantasy Drawings

 

            “Molly Anderson get your a*s out here now!”

            Nothing came to mind that I did wrong that morning. Hell, the only things I’d done so far were to eat breakfast and wash the morning dishes. So when I was summoned to the kitchen I searched Mother and Tim’s faces for a clue.

            Tim was holding up his black skillet. “Why the f**k did this get washed?”

            In my house, when my mother and her live-in boyfriend were feeling lazy after they dirtied the kitchen, pots and pans were left on the stove. Any other day it was to be assumed that I knew they needed to be washed and shouldn’t have to be told to do so. Apparently today was different, and no one had given me the notice.

            “It was on the stove,” I shrugged. Clearly this was the wrong answer.

            “I was going to use it to cook! It was there for a reason!” Some of his spit landed on my face, and it was then I could smell the vodka. “So you just poured all my vegetable oil down the f*****g drain?”

            Vegetable oil. That explained why the substance in the frying pan had been so hard to rinse out.

            I snuck a glance at Mother. She didn’t look pleased with me, but she wasn’t full blown pissed like Tim was. If anything she looked plumb wore out. All the curls had fallen out of her brown hair, the bags under her eyes were taking up more of her face, and she needed to touch up her eyeliner. She’d seen better days.

            “I’m sorry.” Some days looking him in the eye worked. But when he was drinking, it was best to duck my head. “The pan was on the stove, and I thought it was dirty.”

            “No, sorry doesn’t work this time.” Tim pointed his skillet at me. “You did this on purpose, I know you did. Always trying to start f****n drama between me and your mother.”

            “No, I wasn’t. I was-“

            “Yes you were. Yes you were!” The spitting while he talked came first, followed by the childish interrupting. Soon he would make things physical.

            Smart Molly knew better than to argue. She’d been through this before, and nothing good had ever came out of making a scene. But Stupid Molly wasn’t in the mood to take his s**t.

            “No I wasn’t! Everything I do is supposedly a new way to get you out of my house, but it’s not! It was just a freaking frying pan. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out all you have to do is refill it with oil.” Even before I was done speaking I knew it’d been a huge mistake.

            Suddenly I had to move right to avoid the skillet that had been launched. “Girl I am so tired of that mouth of yours-“ Tim lurched towards me, a hand raised.

            Mother quickly stepped in front of him. “Molly, go to your room.”

            For five long seconds I debated staying, but the look on Tim’s face convinced me otherwise. Despite the sound of his protests I hurried out of the room. I uncurled my fists to see in each hand five shallow cuts, the result of unclipped fingernails.  Before opening to door to my bedroom I wiped my hands on my jeans. My brother Brian looked up when I walked in.

“Did you get in trouble?” He whispered.

“Yeah,” I shut the door behind me. “It was something stupid, don’t worry about it. Whatcha got there?”

Brian hid his hands behind his back. “Nothing.” From the glimpse I’d seen it was a piece of paper, and the markers spread out around his bed made it pretty obvious.

“Whatever you say lil man.” Somehow I managed to get to my bed, after stepping over a half finished puzzle, a dirty pair of socks, and a Captain America comic. “Bry, this is getting old. You’re nine years old, that means keeping your crap on your side of the room. Preferably put away.”

For that statement I received the Brain look. Lips pushed out, green eyes narrowed, and a little hand on hip action for good measure. “You don’t clean up your messes.”

He was talking about the pile of acrylic paint bottles, unused canvas, and shoes that surrounded the edge of my bed. “For the record-“

The door to our room burst open. Mother brandished a leather belt. Brian leapt onto his bed and scooted to the corner farthest from her. Before I had time to react, she had already swung the belt, and a fierce burning pain shot through my arm. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore the sound of my little brother starting to cry.

“Did you rinse out that pan on purpose?” Mother raised the belt again, and the even tone of her voice was to let me know she wasn’t f*****g around.

“No,” I said.

The belt cracked down again, that time managing to hit a few of the fingers holding onto my injured arm. “Did you rinse out the pan on purpose!”

“No!” I bit down on a wail of pain and hurried to blink away any oncoming tears.

For a minute she just stood there and stared at me. Though I would’ve liked nothing better than to tear my eyes off her, I knew if I did she’d think I was lying. So our gazes remained locked, brown looking into brown, and it was quiet save for the occasional sniffle from Brian.

“Tim,” Mother started, “wants me to come in here and beat you. But I believe you, and I won’t let him in here to hurt you.” There it was. A spark of my old mother, the person she was before she met Tim. Like all good things, it vanished as quick as it came. “So stay in here, and don’t give me a reason to get this out again.” She nodded to the belt.

Ironic enough that she was going to protect me from Tim, yet not even five minutes ago she was the one doing the hurting. “Ok,” I agreed quietly.

Without so much as a glance at Brian she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. The moment the door shut I let out the breath I’d been holding. There was a furious red welt forming on my arm, and it stung something terrible. Instead of focusing on the pain, I turned my attention to my brother. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his little frame shaking with inaudible sobs. I left my bed and crawled onto his and gathered him into my arms.

“Shh,” I whispered. “She’s gone, everything’s fine now.”

Brain’s only reply was to soak my shirt with his tears. I ran my fingers through his straw colored hair and tried to think of a way to make things better.

This happened every time Mother brought out the belt. Sometimes she’d hit me with her hand, or the meter stick, but it was the belt Brian was most afraid of. He’d never been punished in that way, and I prayed to God he never would.

After a few more minutes he seemed to run out of tears. Sniffling, Brian lifted his head and wiped his nose with his pajama sleeve. He stared at my arm. “Does it hurt?”

“Nope.” I lied. “When she hit me it did, but it goes away really fast.” Hopefully he’d never have to figure out that wasn’t the case.

He was quiet for a moment. “I made you a picture.”

“Yeah? Let’s see it.” I leaned over the side of the bed and picked up the paper he’d dropped. What he’d drawn made my eyes water. On the left side of the paper was a figure with brown hair, covered in red and purple bumps and cuts. Next to that an arrow led to a picture of the same figure, minus the injuries, with a smile on her face. A smaller figure with yellow hair held her hand.

“Whenever you feel sad, you can look at my picture. And you’ll feel happy again. Ok?” He was looking up at me with those huge green eyes.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I sure will, lil man. Thank you so much.” I pulled him close again. Damn. He deserved so much better than this.

We broke apart, and Brian opened his mouth but closed it when we heard voices.

“She does this time and time again! Are you going to choose that b***h over me?”

“Tim, she’s right. It was a frying pan. Why the f**k do you have to get so touchy? Don’t you grab that bottle again, you’ve had enough.”

“Me? What about that glass you’ve been drinking all morning?”

The banter continued, but I stopped listening. Sliding off Brian’s bed, I went over to my dresser and dug through the top drawer. After a while my hand found the blue striped sock with a bulge in the bottom. I slipped a few bills from the wad into my jean’s pocket and replaced my stash.

Turning around, I looked at Brian. “Are you up for a bike ride?”

His face immediately lit up; it was as if I’d asked him if he wanted every day to be Christmas. “Yeah!”

“Alright, get dressed. Don’t forget your Spider-Man jacket, it’s getting chilly for only September.” While I spoke I was already pulling on my sneakers. Leaving Brian to change, I made my way back to the kitchen.

The skillet was still on the wooden floor, and the only thing that had changed that I could see was the amount of liquor in the vodka bottle. When Tim looked up and saw me he snarled.

“What do you want now?”

I ignored him and turned to Mother. “Can me and Brian go out for a bike ride? We’ll only be gone for about an hour.”

She bit her lip and stared at me. The gears were turning. If she said yes, we’d be out of the house and that might calm Tim down. But it could also look like her daughter was running the show instead of her. What would Mother choose, her pride or her children’s safety?

When the sigh escaped her mouth, I knew I was safe. “Fine. Go.”

“Brian!” I called. “Let’s go!”

My brother appeared wearing his jacket, a pair of ripped jeans and tennis shoes that had seen better days. As he came to a stop at my side, his eyes darted between me and the adults. Probably wondering if the coast was clear.

Tim’s ice blue gaze flickered over Brian. “Don’t you have any clothes that aren’t holey? Sarah, look at the kid’s shoes. You can practically see his left big toe.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I know, Tim. If it’s not their clothes, it’s the state of the house. If it’s not the house, it’s the yard, or the garage.”

Although I’d never tell him, Tim did have a point with the house. Looking around I saw the stacks of mail that overran the hutch and dining room table. Dust bunnies were being born in a corner of the living room, and DVD cases were strewn all over the floor. For a one story rental, there wasn’t much room, but Mother wasn’t the best at utilizing it either.

“Well, we’re going to leave now.” I took Brian by the sleeve and brushed past Tim and Mother to get to the door that led to the garage.

“Wait, Molly, do you have your watch?”

“Yes Mother.” I lifted my wrist and pushed back the grey sleeve of my hoodie to reveal the cheap silver Wal-mart watch. Most teenagers had phones. But Mother was firm in her belief that they would only be useful in emergencies, therefore I was on my own if I wanted to buy one.

“One hour, that’s three thirty. I swear to God Molly if you’re late again you won’t be going anywhere for a month.”

The scary part was that she meant it.

With an obedient nod, I opened the door and ushered Brian out to the garage. Both of us could feel the sense of urgency, and didn’t waste time jumping on our bikes and taking to the street. The faster we pedaled the faster we could get away from that house, and the farther we rode the closer we became to pretending to be normal kids.

 

 

Reviews

[Daelmaron]

very good writing, I enjoyed reading it, though it has a dark tone it rings of the truth behind the words. Well written, keep up the good work. Good to see you back on writerscafe

[Kayla Etreni]

i absulutly LOVE this..
true story? inbox me!
and more pleaaseee!