Chapter One

June 1, Monday 

Dear Diary,

He’s been hitting us a lot more than usual lately.  He’s such a jerk.  I wish Mom didn’t have to be here too.  Then I wouldn’t have to stay.  But I can’t leave her here.  We always take half the beating for each other.  If I left, he could easily hit her a little too hard one night and she wouldn’t be here anymore.  I can’t write any more right now.  I have to make his dinner, and it has to be exactly on time, or he gets really mad. 

 

“Taylor Evans!  Get your fat ass down here and start cooking!” my father screamed up the stairs.  I threw my diary into my drawer, locked it, and ran down the steps, taking them two at a time.  The first thing I noticed was the beer bottle in my father’s hand.  Great.

I really hate him.  He molested me once.  Five years ago, when I was only twelve years old, he got an idea.  He had been trying to get my mother pregnant again for quite some time, but had been unsuccessful.  What he didn’t know was that she had gotten on the pill right after he started abusing us when I was six.  She didn’t want to bring another person into this world to suffer from him.

That night, he was drunk.  He came into my room at nine o’clock and told me that I must have his child since Mom wouldn’t.  You can guess the rest.  He hasn’t done it since, though, nor acknowledge that he’d done it.

I began helping my mom break apart the frozen burgers when I noticed a fresh purple bruise on her right cheek.  “What did he do that for?” I whispered to her, subtly nodding toward her cheek.

“I dropped the ice cube tray,” she whispered through unmoving lips, a talent we had learned to master.

Rage heated my face and I was grateful that I had an excuse to make some noise as I helped her pry the frozen food apart with a butter knife.  I ignored the irritated glances from my father.

We managed to get through dinner without injury, and right after dinner I took a shower and retreated to my room.   I locked the door and took the book that I was writing out of my drawer.

I love to write, and it’s a good way to keep from going insane.  I doubt I’ll ever try to get my books published, but it’s fun writing them.  I plopped down on my bed and sighed, propping my notebook up on my knees.  The book was about a young woman, Anne, who just got out on her own, in the eighteenth century.  She’s somewhat of a romantic, but she’s been having problems with her beau lately. 

I really wish that I could escape to the fairytale life I’ve created for Anne.  Sometimes I dream about it.

I settled in, burrowing down underneath my covers with my book, a pencil, and a flashlight.  I turned on the light and began writing where I left off.

She gazed adoringly at him for a moment, sitting atop his beautiful mare, then led her own chestnut horse out beside him and mounted her.

“Hey, stranger,” he greeted Anne.  “I haven’t seen you around here for a while.”

“I know,” she replied.  “I’ve been . . .  busy.”

John smiled at her and took her hand, leading her out of the field and into the forest.  He released her and urged his horse into a trot.  Anne followed him deeper into the forest on the soft dirt trail.

I continued writing for hours, taking Anne and John on a romantic outing in the forest until I fell asleep, my book in my arms, the flashlight still on. 

*

“Taylor, will you come down here and help me, please?”  My mom called up the stairs.  I had been about to begin reading a new book, but I obediently slipped it beneath my pillow and joined her downstairs.

“Yeah, Mom?” I asked her.  “Well, your father told me to clean this spot on the carpet, but I can’t get it out.  I put this powder stuff on,” she gestured to a box of carpet stain remover, “and scrubbed it, but it won’t come out.”

“Did you read the directions?” I asked her with a raised eyebrow.  She had the tendency to skip on that part.

“Well no . . . ” she said guiltily.  “But I would think that I would know how to use a stain remover.”  I picked up the box and quickly scanned through the instructions. 

“Mom, you have to add water to the powder,” I said, smiling at her.She looked defeated for a moment, but then grinned.  “Well, what would I do without you?”

“Oh, I have a feeling that you’d still be wearing your crocs every day,” I said with a smirk.  She stuck her tongue out at me and tried to smack my leg, but I danced out of the way and back up the steps.  Back in my room, I read about the evolution of horses until I had to help my mom make dinner.

At four-thirty, I hopped down the steps to find that she had not yet stopped working on the quilt that she was making.  She sold  homemade things like soaps, quilts,  pies, things like that to people, and she was the main supporter of our family – Dad worked at a bowling alley part-time and it doesn’t bring in much at all.  Business has been really slow lately for both of them, though, and money’s tight – even more so than usual I mean.

“What’re you working on?” I asked her.

She glanced up at me, then at the clock, and said, “Oh, I’ll be done here in a minute, honey.  I’ve just got to get this quilt done tonight.  Someone ordered it online and they want it by Wednesday, which means I’ve got to get it in the mail by tomorrow.”

“Okay, well I’ll get started awhile.  What’re we making tonight?” I ask.

“Hotdogs and beans,” she tells me. 

“Alrighty,” I say, then begin bustling around the kitchen,  opening a can of beans and dumping them into a pot, humming cheerfully.  I was in a surprisingly good mood this afternoon.  Maybe it was because I’d been reading about horses all afternoon.  I suspected that would change as soon as my father walked through the door though.  He always sort of puts a damper on good spirits.  It’s a gift.

I took the hotdogs out of the fridge and started unwrapping them, thinking about money.  “You know, Mom,” I began.

“Yea, honey?” she said, not looking up from her stitching.

“Well I was thinking . . .  maybe I should start looking around for a weekend job.  I know we could use the money, and Dad’s obviously not going to be much help with that if he stays where he is.”

Mom put her quilt down on her lap and looked at me.  “Taylor, you’re only seventeen.  I don’t like the idea of you working, unless it’s for your own spending money.  And where would someone hire a girl your age, anyhow?”

“There’s that farm down the street.  I wouldn’t mind working with the horses, and I’m sure they could use some help.”

Mom set her quilt on the table and walked over and gave me a hug.  “Tay, if you really want to get a job, I’m not going to stop you,” she said into my hair.  “It’s really wonderful that you’d be willing to use your weekends to help bring in some money.”

I hugged her back and said, “I’ll go over there after dinner.”

She smiled. “Hey, you’ll burn the beans.” She gestured to the steaming pot on the stove.

Impressum

Texte: Hannah Jackson
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.07.2013

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This is for all my best friends. Thank you guys so much for always being there for me when I need you most. Hannah, Taylor, Grace, Lauren, Sara, all of you guys. You’re the best.