Briana Claus – By The Bottle

I’d hated him for years, ever since I was little and was able to comprehend my surroundings. The way he treated my mother was unacceptable. I’d watch how he would beat her and I knew eventually it would be me under those pounding fists. Every day after school I’d run up the stairs to my room and lock my door to avoid any confrontation I might have with him.

I remember there was one day I was sitting in my room and I heard him pull in the driveway; I imagined him sitting in his car concentrating his anger so he could focus it all onto my mother as soon he came through the door. A few minutes later I heard the door opening, then I heard yelling. Glass smashing. Feet stumbling. My mother begging him to stop, shouting “STOP! Please!”. I imagined the tears forming in her eyes as she tried to shield herself from the violence. Her crashing toward the floor. Banging. More begging. Then I heard him make his way up the stairs. I remember flinging the blanket over myself, trying to protect myself from the world and make him believe I was asleep. The door opened, followed by footsteps, then… a repetition of what happened downstairs.

After a few months this became a daily routine. I never had the strength to stand up for myself, and my mother was much too afraid of him to try to change anything. It was like clockwork.  3 PM: Return from school; 3:30 PM: Car pulls up in the driveway; 3:32 PM: Door opening; 3:35 PM: Yelling; 3:36 PM: Sounds of something in our house being thrown and broken; 3:40 PM: Footsteps on the stairs; 3:42 PM: My turn. Of course there were days where it varied, but this was basically the way things were.

My entire life had become one huge pool of violence and abuse. I would go to school and people would ask what happened to me; and I would lie and say that I fell down the stairs. Clumsy me, I’d shrug. I knew they never believed me. They could tell by the look in my eyes. The pleading. “Help me! Help me!” I wanted to shout. I knew I couldn’t. Nobody could do anything.

Even now I hear the shouting weaving its way through the walls of the house, through every nook and cranny, and through the vents. Looking at the clock I see it’s 3:00 AM. I never sleep anymore. The fear. The tears. The yelling. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. My mind racing, analyzing the things I hear.

“You’re nothing. You’re nobody. You’re a useless piece of fucking shit! Nobody will ever love you. Even your daughters a screw up. You can’t do anything right.” He came home with a paper bag today. It’s not the liquid that does the damage, it’s the bottle.  Glass breaking, bottles smashing.  My mother falling to the floor.

My mother and I. We are the warriors, the strong, and the brave. We surpass each wave, each bombardment of pain. Pain given to us by those we thought we trusted. Trust broken and never regained.