Hide and Seek

A story about a young girls struggle with abusive parents.

I am 18. The air is crisp with the return of autumn. It pierces my eyes producing tears that sit on the brim of my bottom eyelid. The trees blur by me barely visible through the tears. My lungs burn. I don’t know how long I have been running. All I hear is breathing and the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet. I have to keep running. I have to escape.
I was 12 when I started running. When I first started trying to escape on a much less physical level. I learned of the demons within me and the endless distractions from my own self dominated my life. It was clear to me then that my friends could never understand. They were happy in their lives and I was so envious.
Everyday was the same. I would wake up, go to school, pretend I was happy, then I would get home and stow away in my room for the rest of the night waiting for my parents to go to bed so that I could sneak into the liquor cabinet. They never suspected that their oblivious blonde daughter would even think to drink. But, they never really got to know me. They were too caught up in their own issues.
They had their routines, too. Every night, they would eat, drink, fight, and then my dad would leave and go god knows where. Of course, now I know he was visiting the other young blonde in his life but at the time I had no clue and I wish I still had this ignorance about me.
My mom would go and console herself with another form of mistress hidden in her room. Once she passed out, I helped myself. My Dad’s nightly drunken rampage worked to benefit me because they never noticed the alcohol disappearing from the handes they had packed in the fridge. I would give myself a nice buzz, thinking that I was drunk, and then I would go to bed. By the time I woke up, my dad would be home, I would be sober, and my mother would be hiding her bruises with long sleeves and make up.
Their secrets would continue to bubble beneath the surface for years. I could handle this tension most nights but when ever summer came around, the tension thickened as the yelling grew louder and the bruises turned into broken walls, ribs, and noses. It became harder for the abuse to be hidden but nobody came to help. I imagine the neighbors put in earplugs to drown out my mother’s screams and my father’s coworkers turned an eye to his bruised knuckles. And so, I was stuck pretending everything was okay.
I was 15 when the real rebellion began. I snuck out night after night and walked aimlessly around my town. I remember the night so well. It was the first time I contemplated roaming aimlessly forever. It was warm and the chirping of crickets rang in my ear like a broken record. The moon was full and a thin layer of clouds surrounded it causing light to fill the clouds and illuminate the earth below. My steps squeaked as a product of the wet dew and grass coating the bottom of my feet.
That’s when I came to the sign that read, “Welcome to Brooke Field!” A smiling cartoon sun floated above the words and I felt a rage build up inside me. This place is my captive and they were inviting people in. Will there be more neighbors with earplugs? Will there be more teachers ignoring the student with puffy eyes? More sales clerks ignoring a bruise mother buying advil and concealer? All I need is more people in my life ignoring the obvious signs of a broken home and a trapped girl with nobody to turn to.
My hand tightened around the bottle of cheap vodka I carried and all at once the anger of all the tortured nights built inside me and I let out a scream. I threw the bottle against the sign. Both the bottle and I shattered together and I fell to my knees. I cursed at the grass and the crickets and the moon and the smiling cartoon sign and the broken glass and my life that I lost control of before I even had a chance to make something of it.
I fell to my hands as I puked and then laid on my back. I looked at the stars. In that moment, I felt so small and I realized why nobody cared to help me. They didn’t care about me. I am one person among billions. Their lives are happy and content. They don’t want to see that there is no such thing as a truly good life. They didn’t want to know about the girl that’s turned to alcohol and drugs to chase away the realities of her life.
I was 17 when no bottle of alcohol could contain my anger. Nor weed, pills, acid. My dreams turned to nightmares and not even sleep could drag me away from life outside my subconscience. I sat on my bed every night and traced the scars on my arms that turned into holes where the needle broke through my skin. I made sure everyone saw the scars. Everyday I became more and more desperate for an outsider to see the evidence of a tortured soul. They saw, but still, they ignored it. When I wasn’t too high to move, I snuck out. Desperate to feel something besides pain, I slept with strangers. The list of men grew as I seeked out a new emotion. One I hadn’t known for years. The bliss of ignorance.
I am 18. Now, I run. This time using my legs. Not a bottle, not a pipe, not a lighter, not a needle. I run through trees and bushes. I am finally stopped by a hidden log. Before I know what is happening I am on the ground. I open my eyes and look around. My chest hurts from the cold air pouring in my lungs. I feel scratches along my leg and I look down to see my jeans are ripped revealing a dark purple bruise spreading across my thigh. In the distance, I hear my father. His drunken slurs sound desperate. At once, I am up again running. I reach a clearing in the woods and there is a pond. I run into the pond and become still.
There is no sounds. I smell mud and I feel my scratches sting in the water. It is cold and I feel like I cannot move. As much as I want to leave the pond and get warm, I know that I cannot. I cannot go home and I have nowhere else to turn to.
I hear the yells from my father growing and I can hear his footsteps. I retreat under the water. I breath all the air out of my lungs and feel my body sink to the ground. I open my eyes. I can see the sun above me. The rays are morphed by the ripples produced from the surfacing bubbles. My name is screamed but it is muffled by the water surrounding me. He screams my name a few times and stops. I can only assume he is gone. But, I do not check.
I watch colors form on the outskirts of my vision. The sunlight becomes dark and the colors become more vibrant. They are like fireworks spreading across a night sky. I let out a single air bubble. I have finally escaped.

Author's Note

ignore grammar. Is this an overdone idea? This is a rough draft I just threw together.

Reviews

[Prototato]

My god. This is one of the most relatable writings I've seen yet.
I mean... I'm still in the midst of awkward teen years, so no alcohol, but still.

EXTRAORDINARY job.

[Misterr Remeat]

A place that I have seen. Deep and disturbing. Very well done!