Letters To My Mate

Chapter Three

THREE

The spaghetti bolognaise that my father had demanded to have for dinner tonight was almost finished – I just had to dish it up and let it cool down. It would be way too hot but my father would try to eat it anyway, burn himself, and then blame me. I couldn't afford another beating today; I had PE tomorrow and my teacher probably wouldn't let me skip yet again. I also needed to start on my letter to my pen pal. Ethan. I sighed, a small smile appearing on my face. I didn't smile often – it was rare. But for some reason, I had been smiling a lot today. I had a feeling that something was different. Good or bad, I didn't know, but I knew that something was going to change.

I placed a cheap, plain china plate on the worktop of the kitchen before grabbing a large spoon, almost like a ladle – I don't know much about kitchen utensils and equipment but my mother used to let me cook with her when I was younger so I knew a lot of recipes. I dished the spaghetti before placing it in-between a silver spoon and fork on our small, square table for two. After this, I ran upstairs at full speed, locking the door of my bedroom behind me. He would be here any second now and I couldn't afford to be downstairs right now.

A large slam of the front door echoed throughout the house moments later. I froze. The sound of his heavy footsteps startled me after a few seconds of silence. He was walking towards the kitchen at a slow pace; I could almost imagine him with his hands on his hips, eyebrows raised and back arched, looking around to see if I had cleaned and made dinner – which I had done. Mother would be proud of me, I thought, smiling to myself. But the sound of a plate smashing against either the floor or a wall caused it to fall off of my face. He was a lot angrier than usual today. He would never waste money – even if it was just one plate. His money was all for alcohol, he couldn't and wouldn't waste a penny.

I heard him climbing up the stairs - taking them two, probably three at a time with his long legs. I hid under my thin covers, hoping that he would walk past my room and straight into his. But I was never a lucky one. Fists were banging against my door not even a second later. I could feel his anger radiating through the door – he would break it down if I didn't open it.

"OPEN THE DOOR!" He shouted, creating a ringing in my ears.

"NOW," He ordered again.

I covered my ears and brought my knees up to my chest. I didn't want this life. I never asked for it. So God, why did you give it to me? Why can you not save me now? Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, I chanted inside my head. Please just leave me alone. I didn't cry though and I never would cry ever again. I vowed to my mother that I would not cry again. I would never shed another tear because I know that it is pointless... It would not bring her back and it would definitely not make any of this stop. He loved it when I cried because it showed I was in pain. But I would not give him that satisfaction – ever.

A hard, powerful kick against my door woke me up from my thoughts. I braced myself for the door to burst open and a tall figure with incredibly dark brown hair and brown eyes and a large amount of muscle to appear. I knew that he would barrel towards me, some kind of weapon in his hand. He would normally use his prized baseball bat that we used to share when we played when I was 6. But a lot of the time he would just use his hands balled into fists or kick me with his steel-toe boots. I would wince in pain, cowering into the wall trying to find protection from him as he kicked and punched me with all his force.

But none of this happened. I didn't know what had happened but my father's retreating footsteps caused me to sit up in shock. He was going back downstairs. I sighed in both relief and happiness –things were looking up for me today. Just as I thought that, his footsteps stopped as he paused on the short set of stairs; I had spoken too soon. My breathing hitched and my heart got caught in my throat. I was terrified. I knew that if I had not opened the door for him that would be even angrier the next time but I didn't need it to be now.