phoenixwrite (2013-07-04 17:28:37)

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The couch. Always behind the couch. Under the table. The closet under the stairs. Three places to run. Three places to hide. Every time their voices would rise I would run to the closest sanctuary and thank God I was small enough to fit. Those voices that ran across each corner of the room seemed to reverberate off my very skin. Dad. He told me to call him Sir. Never Dad. Mom. She told me to call her Hannah. She was so pretty when she slept. She was so pretty when she was happy. Now, her body of twenty years was old. Tired from no sleep, breaking from fingertips pressed into her sides, and boiling with too hard of liquor for her fragile, porcelain outline. After every uproar, every tear by her, and every empty bottle by him they would come looking. Her, happy to see him turn his malice towards me. Him, happy to turn his malice away from himself. I was the six year old pathetic coward. Sir, I would say. My eyes would wander to Hannah with frightened curiosity. What had I done?

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phoenixwrite (2013-07-04 17:29:54)

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I called him sir. I called her Hannah.

They called me Henry at school.

They called me Henry at church.

They called me Monster at home.


After black, they would confine me to my room. A tiny room with one window, where their words said minutes earlier would form long sentences and wrap around in a circle above my head like those music boxes loving mothers would clip to the sides of their infants cribs. I hated my room. I hated the dark. They knew it, too, and took pleasure in locking me in. Locking me in where they could get me.

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phoenixwrite (2013-07-04 17:30:23)

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Dear Reader: Please note, if you ever were a six year old child, remember what it was like to lay in bed and imagine that loud heartbeat pulsing thick from underneath your mattress. Remember that hand that hovered over your face once you closed your eyes. Remember that loud breathing that resided around your open window. The creatures. That white little girl that crawled towards you in the night, hair hanging around the neck, fingers outstretched. To a child it is horrid. To an adult, it is a memory that most barely ever remember.


Twenty years later.

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phoenixwrite (2013-07-04 17:31:05)

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I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY! JUST SAYIN THAT NOW!

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Super_~_Junior. (2013-07-04 23:29:48)

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I don't like it o-e

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MeNobody14 (2013-07-05 02:22:14)

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^ I concur.

Abusive parents. Yay.

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phoenixwrite (2013-07-08 07:48:59)

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i did find on a minecraft forum i'll see and find the rest. it said ther was more so

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