ELLIE ~ 12 YEARS OLD

Sitting on the floor in my bedroom, I’ve been staring off into space for what feels like an hour now. My mom sent me downstairs to play, saying she didn’t want to look at me.  It’s not the first time she’s told me she couldn’t bear the sight of me, but it hasn’t hardened my soul, doesn’t lessen the hurt.  My thoughts continue to replay the way she was digging through the kitchen cabinets while tears streamed down her face.  Her eyes red and her hair a tangled mess as she searched the cupboards for more alcohol. 

“Anything to make it go away,” she repeated over and over. She never said what she meant, but I knew.

She wanted to take away the pain she felt after my Dad left us and went to heaven.

I try to stay away from my mom when she’s drinking, but it seems like all the time lately. So instead I hide out in my room.  It's my safe place.

I can hear my name being shouted from somewhere upstairs. I know my mom isn’t home.  Coming up empty after a thorough search of all her hiding places, she headed to the store for reinforcements. Only one other person could be yelling for me.

My heart starts to pound as I squeeze my eyes shut and say a prayer. I beg God every night for him to leave me alone. I’m living the same nightmares that keep me up at night.

The dry, hoarse sound of my name being called again brings me crashing back to reality. On shaky legs, I stand while taking a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.  I want to run, but I know what would come either way, so instead, I leave the safety of my bedroom and head up the stairs. As soon as I reach the landing, the stench of cigarette smoke invades my nostrils, causing my stomach to turn.

I hate the smell of cigarettes. It’s not only the scent or how they make my head hurt, but because they remind me so much of him. The two are synonymous and will forever be etched in my memory.

The football game blares on the TV as smoke floats through the air. The curtains and windows are open. A fresh breeze flows and sunlight streams in onto the hardwood floors. I can hear the outside laughter of the neighbor kids, and for a minute, I wish I was like the other kids my age, spending the afternoon riding their bikes up and down the sidewalk or playing hide ‘n seek.

I would give anything to be hiding in my room.

Letting out a silent breath I didn’t realize I had been holding, I steal a glance out of the side of my eye to see him sitting in his chair in the corner of the living room. The ashtray on the end table is nearly overflowing with cigarette butts.  My lip curls in disgust.

“C’mere, sweet girl,” he says with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

I stare at it as if I can somehow will it to fall, leaving burn marks on his skin in the process. Anything to get him to leave me alone for a while.

“Come sit up here on my lap,” he commands, the tone forcing my feet to move.

Advancing to stand in front of him, I take in the glassy, bloodshot look in his eyes. I wish I could say it surprises me, but it doesn’t. The clear liquid in the glass on the end table confirms what I already know. He’s been drinking. Vodka, to be exact.

It's not his first drink today, and I know it won’t be his last.

Moving to sit on his knee, I turn to face the TV screen and use the football game to distract me from the way my stomach churns. I tell myself over and over to remain calm and remember to breathe, all while wishing I was anywhere else but here.

Slow breaths, Ellie.

Inhale slowly. Exhale slowly.

He takes a deep drag from his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray.  The smoke swirls around in front of my face.  I hold my breath for as long as I can. He reaches out to pick up his half empty glass of vodka.  Just before taking a drink, he tips his glass to me in offering.  The grin on his face says it all.  He thinks it’s funny, like the last time I fell for believing it was water.

That’s not a mistake I will ever make again.

Shaking my head, I somberly turn back to the TV. I can feel his chest vibrate against my back as he laughs before throwing back what’s left of his vodka. I want to be mad at him but I don’t have the strength to fight him.

Not anymore.

Wrapping his arm around my stomach, he pulls me back leaving no room between us. His hand runs along the underside of my chest, and it catches me off guard, causing me to tense. I don’t like it when he touches me. I harken my ears for the sound of my Mom’s car pulling into the driveway. At least when she’s home, he doesn’t bother me.

Sweeping my long blond hair away from my face, he leans down pressing his nose against my neck. Running his cheek along mine, the stubble of his facial hair feels like sandpaper against my soft skin. He moves his hand down my stomach, groaning as he presses down, rubbing himself against my butt.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight back the tears that threaten to fall. The last thing I remember is the grunting sound he makes and the words my father used to say.

Now they only cause me sadness.

Pressing his cheek against mine, he groans, “That’s my sweet girl.”