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XxWrecklessIntentionsxX

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Posted: Thu Dec 24, 2009 6:15 am

I started this story a little bit ago, so tell me what you think of the first chapter...

Most stories have some form of introduction, or something that instantly captures your attention and the thirst for more is created. But, alas, my creativity is as dry as the pages this ink is printed on. The story I’m about to tell you may or not interest you, it all depends on your way of thinking. Most people go through life making mistakes only to learn from them, pick themselves up, and keep going. But me? Oh never the case, darling, let me tell ya. I fall, get back up, and fall flat on my face again. Why? Because some people just never learn...

This story begins in my fifteenth year. My mother died from cancer, and my dad took to alcohol to get him through the long lonely nights of pain. Me? I stuck it out like any know-it-all teenager would, at least in front of my peers. At home, locked within the confines of my room I cried my eyes out for every night for the first month straight. When I realized that the whole world wasn’t going to stop spinning just because yet another life had been lost, no matter how precious I thought that one life was. So I picked myself up and brushed myself off the best I could. But I was changed, there was no denying that. Everyone saw it, and I couldn’t explain it. Something had just cracked when my mom died. I know now what it was, my innocence. I grew up the instant I knew mommy dearest wasn’t going to be around anymore to kiss my boo-boos and make them better. I became in charge of the household chores; cooking, cleaning, washing laundry, and tending to my father’s drunken a**. Sometimes I wanted to dump him at some homeless shelter or something, but the blood that ran in my veins ran in his, and I just couldn’t.

The first year after my mother’s death was hard but I adjusted. All I needed was time to fall into my new routine; wake up and cook my dad’s breakfast before leaving for school, go to school and work my a** off, come home and clean and cook dinner, do homework, go to sleep. My dad worked during the day so the bills were paid, as far as I could tell. Electricity stayed on and there were no letters about foreclosure in the mail. Then my dad brought home his new girlfriend, only a year after losing the one he vowed to love until, as they say, death do them part. She was a nice woman, around the same age as my father with dimples like craters on the moon. She had auburn hair and green eyes, freckled skin, all Irish from the looks of it. He moved her in the night I met her, so apparently this had been an ongoing thing. She took the house chores off my hands the instant she became woman of the house. It wasn’t until two months later I learned her nasty secret. She was a drug addict, and a drug dealer, all rolled into one. It was one thing to sell the stuff, but to do it? In a house with a teenager? Yeah, good job you ******** genius. She got the mom-of-the-year award for sure. And eventually I noticed the puncture wounds on my dad’s arms, and veins he had blown trying to inject himself with the drugs he was using. This was in issue I just couldn’t stand.

By the time I turned sixteen I was acting out towards the new female of the house in order to get her kicked out. Instead I found my father taking her side. Privileges were snatched away along with beloved items such as my iPod and computer. Nasty b***h annoyed every second of it, that dirty smug grin always on those Botox-filled red lips. I found myself locked in my room, often skipping meals just to stay sane. I still acted out, but it only landed me in deeper s**t. Then some b***h who had been giving me problems at school crossed the line. She had decided to try and push my buttons on a day I was just no in the mood for her bullshit. She brought up my mother, called her a whole bunch of things I don’t care to bring up again. So I snapped. Beat the living s**t out of her and she never so much as looked at me again. I got a referral, which peaked my father’s anger. The school guidance counselor brought up to him that I might be trying to get his attention. I got it alright. That night my father raised his hand to me for the first time in my life. The bruise from that blow to the face never really disappeared, even after the physical markings were no longer visible.

After that I stayed shut up in my room permanently. Eventually I got all my things back because I was now behaving like “a good daughter”. I skipped all meals except lunch because I couldn’t stomach to be around them. And then they started bringing in their druggie little friends. I could smell the weed up in my room while they played poker and drank whiskey. I was on the verge of turning seventeen at this point. My grades had slumped and teachers were worried but never put words to their concern. I clung to my friends for support, relying on the close knit group we had formed in our freshman year to keep me alive and sane. Then something happened I will never forget.

My best friend since seventh grade, Chrissie, decided to do something stupid and I called her out on it. We started arguing and it ended in her stomping away from me. The next day as I walked through the halls of our high schools people whispered and stared and all turned away from me as I passed. When I got to the group of my friends Chrissie was MIA and they all were looking at me gravely. They told me that rumors were circulating about my dad, being a drunk and a drug addict. I knew the rumors were true, and I knew the only source who would have even thought of spreading them would be Chrissie. I ******** her up when I found her too. I was developing a reputation fast, the badass whom nobody ******** with. It suited me, but I got more “attention” from my father that night in the form of a belt to my back. Great. Fun. Yippee.
Now it brings me to my seventeenth birthday. My dad and his girlfriend’s idea of a party was to invite all their druggie friends over for cake, poker, and of course, booze and drugs. The only nice part was my boyfriend of 6 months was allowed to come over, yay. Blake was everything a girl could ever want. He was tall, then again everyone was compared to me, tanned skin, jet black hair that hung in his face and half way down his neck with some red died into it, snake bites in his lips, a tattoo of a dragon on his muscular back, broad shoulders, and sexy chest and stomach muscles. One thing to understand, when I say muscles I mean the nice ones, not overly huge and flashy, just nice and toned. Anyway, Blake and I stuck around as long as I could, wanting to put up a good façade. We ate some of the cake the she-man had bought from Wal-Mart. Then they all sang happy birthday, the whole thing striking up a grin on my face because they all looked so stupid. When I finally was able to escape up to my room, Blake wasn’t allowed to go, so I said goodnight and went up to bed. That night I also noticed one of their friends eyeing me. Creepy little ******** too. I went up to my room and got ready for bed, a feeling of uneasiness in my stomach. I later found out what the feeling was; a warning. The creep crept up to my bedroom later on when he thought I was sleeping. He tried to touch me and it turned into a struggle, sober against the buzzed and high. I screamed and to my amazement my father actually came to my “rescue” and beat the guy to a bloody pulp.
Over the summer before I started my senior year my dad’s now fiancé decided that I needed proper discipline in my life to keep me from getting into any fights again. They forced me to get a job, not exactly something I’m going to complain about. I started working at Hot Topic, which has its benefits believe me. For one, it meant more time with Blake. He came up to visit me a lot and we had lunch together too many times to count. I also started buying all my clothes from there, something I had wanted to do for a while. Then I dyed my hair. First it went to all black. Then I bleached the tips of my hair and then died a strand of my hair coontail style and dyed the bleached parts bright blue. I thought it looked awesome. My dad got pissed. Usually he paid no attention to me unless I did something wrong. You see where I’m going with this? Yeah, I started doing things just to piss him off. My next step was getting a piercing. First it was just two more holes in my already pierced ears. He didn’t fret too much over that, so it was time to pull out the big guns. My friend’s sister worked for a tattoo and piercing shop. Somehow my friend managed to get her to pierce my lips and eye brow, taking just enough money to afford the jewelry only. I won’t lie that eyebrow piercing hurt like a b***h. The lip piercing I handled alright though. When I looked in the mirror I saw a girl with piercings and black and blue hair. The new me. The person I was changing into, willingly and coercively. When I got home after that one all holy hell broke loose. My dad screamed at me about having no respect towards him. Something inside broke because I screamed back at him. I’d always sort of feared my dad, not wanting to piss him off so I usually watched what I said to him. Not this time. I told him about how I hated his fiancé, and how I hated that I had a druggie and an alcoholic for a father, and how I hated how he had been treating me. What did all that get me? A backhand across the face. What did that get him? Three words I swore never to say; I hate you. Afterwards he and his fiancé got into a fight, a big one. She stomped out on him, and she never came back even after a month. By this time school was only two weeks away from starting. I was getting ready to go to registration and pick up my schedule, when my father came in drunker than ever. He asked me where I was going, so I told him. Then he started rambling, I couldn’t understand much of anything, but three words I heard loud and clear; all your fault. There was a two second pause and then he lunged for me. He wrapped his meaty hands around my throat and I thought I was done for. Then I kicked and my shin connected with his groin. He dropped me to the floor and I scrambled backwards, trying to find a weapon. Of course I had none in my room. He pointed a finger at me. He told me it was my fault that his fiancé had left him, and my fault that my mother had died. He said that I had caused her too much stress, which had added to the “speed” of the cancer spreading. Then he stared at me for a long time. Before leaving he told me I looked exactly like my mother. What I didn’t know then, is that would be the cause of my personal hell in the following months.

After that I got my schedule and school supply list and went shopping with Blake, who had asked me about the marks around my neck but got no answer. I had bought myself a car with the money I had made, so it made things easier. We went up to my job and bought a ton of stuff using my discount card. I looked around to find a backpack but I didn’t see one so we went to Spencers and bought a Dickies backpack that was black and blue plaid. Then we went to Wal-Mart and bought our notebooks, pens, pencils, and loose leaf paper. I dropped him off and drove home and when I got there I loaded everything up into my backpack and set it aside. I loved back to school shopping. Hated school, loved the preparation for it. The following morning I got up and ate some breakfast, wondering when my drunken a** father was. My question was answered when I heard snoring on the couch. I shook my head and got out a bowl for some cereal. I pulled down the Fruit Loops and went to pour it into the bowl and jumped when I saw my father in the doorway, knocking the bowl right of the counter and onto the floor, the glass shattering everywhere. He started shouting at me, calling me stupid. I bent down to pick it up trying to ignore my father’s harsh words, and then he was looming over me. He grabbed the back of my head by my hair and slammed my head into the cupboards, not exactly a pleasant feeling. Pain cracked through my skull and I swore I could see bright lights. Then he left me to clean up the mess, and then take some Tylenol for the headache pounding in my temples. As I picked up the glass a piece of it slipped through my grip, slicing my palm. I stared at the cut and laughed as blood ran from my hand onto the floor. I can’t explain exactly what happened inside my crazy little head, but that night as I stood in my bathroom, staring into the mirror at I girl I no longer knew, I cut my wrists. The point wasn’t to kill myself, oh no. I didn’t want to die just yet. But I think a part of me thought my dad was right, and I needed to be punished. Not to mention, I was becoming increasingly familiar with pain, be it emotional or physical. So be it a punishment or my way of feeling something I was used to, the point is I did it. And it instantly became habitual.