The Tattooed Flower

1. Zeus and All His Aspirations

Zeus killed his own father, he hated him and not without reason. Cronus had eaten his own children. However, after a time, Zeus came to eat his daughter Athena. So I guess the cycle never really ends.

I'm sure I'll never eat my children, I'm not sure however, that I won't kill my father. It's been three nights of screams and cries. Three days of my mother telling me not to worry, she's fine. Whenever she tells me this I can only walk away. I can only shake my head and withhold tears.I love mother, but I hate my mother. I hate her for torturing herself. I hate her for letting that torture me. I love her for loving me. I love her for protecting me. But how can I balance the love and the hate when it all seems so dark.

I'm sitting in the living room, the TV quietly chirping news I don't really hear. The couch is old and worn, small holes expose yellow cushion where the red faded fabric has torn. There's an light that oozes from the kitchen. My hands sit stiffly between my legs, a knife clenched in my hidden fist.I paw my toes gently through the spongy brown carpet, a weak attempt to relieve some stress. Taz lays sprawled out on the floor this golden head soft and warm against my feet, his long orange and blonde tail slapping the wall slowly. Mom is in the kitchen washing dishes. I stand from the couch and Taz shifts looking at me with his ears perked in confusion and excitement.

"You'll have to take him out before your father gets home." she says, her gray streaked, sandy hair is bound in a ponytail, but strands fall disobediently in her face.

"I know." This is how it always is, a simple command, a simple answer. No touching or crying, no emotion, just statements with nothing behind them.

I'm standing at the paper covered breakfast nook when I hear the door click. I watch mom's hands run circles over the dishes and scrub crusty food off forks. I watch as her hand rests on a knife just a little too long.

My knife lay closed and unseen in the baggy black pocket of my sweatpants, I hear the key twist in the lock and my hand reaches nonchalantly into my pocket and my thumb rubs the silken surface of the pocketknife. My hand closes steadily around it and still unseen flicks the knife into use.

The door opens and my father steps through the door. "Why the hell was that locked again?" He yells. I don't flinch, however my mothers fist tightens on her rag.

"My fault. I heard police sirens and got scared." I lie. My mother exhales slowly.

Mitchell lets out a wheezy laugh, the sound sends goose bumps up my arms and my hand tightens on the knife.

"What's with this?" He says looking at the scatter of paper on the breakfast nook.

"Homework." I say; shuffling papers into a pile before he can see the mess is moms.

"Oh." I smell the familiar scent of alcohol off his breath as he speaks. I finish piling the bills from the counter top and carry them to my backpack setting them carefully in place.

"Cathy, why's that mutt still in here?" Mitch grumbles looking over at Taz. I feel the urge to scream at him over all the things he's ever done to hurt me, but instead, for the first time in a long time, I feel tears bite behind my eyes.

"No one here is named Cathy, and Taz is a purebred." I say diverting my eyes.

"Well aren't you smart..." Mitch grabs the edge of my sweatshirt, and my hand tightens, if that's possible, on the knife. Mom looks at me like a kicked puppy, completely helpless. I look back at my father, at Mitch. I hear a low growl escape Taz.

I begin to pull the knife out of my pocket slowly. He's not your dad; I try to tell myself, not anymore.

The knife clenched tightly in my left hand shakes only slightly. C'mon, I think to myself. C'mon. Taz begins barking, a viscous, territorial sound.