| General Fiction posted April 11, 2016 |
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Flash Fiction Found contest entry
A Tale of Horror
by ~Dovey
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.
Everyone has their limitations and I had reached mine. There is only so much abuse a person can take, and honestly, I couldn't believe I'd held on for this long. I'd done all I could out of love and respect for my mother, no matter if I didn't agree with her choices. The man of her dreams had always been nothing but a monster to me, from the day I was eight years old.
It was three days after my eighth birthday when they got married and twelve days afterward the first time he beat me. I had spent a week with my grandparents while they were away on their honeymoon. It was clear from the moment they returned that he wanted a wife, but not a child. My first spanking, as he called it, left welts on my backside and a scar on my leg. His pointed cowboy boots had a sharp corner that bit into my flesh as he held me down and beat me with his worn leather belt. That day I learned it was my responsibility to have his dinner on the table when he walked in the door after work, staggering drunk from the corner bar.
My mother worked nights waitressing at an all-night truck stop and left shortly before he made it home. She wasn't there to offer me protection or solace, and he threatened more beatings if I told. I knew that she loved him and tried to figure out why. He had swept her off her feet and moved us into a bigger apartment in a better part of town, but he was cruel, that was all I could see. We didn't have to worry where the rent would come from or if we would have enough food on the table. I decided at that young age that I had no choice but to keep my mouth shut and do as I was told.
The beatings came despite my best efforts. Once for too much starch in his shirt, the next time for not enough. It only got worse when he lost his job two years later for showing up late and too hung over to deal with the customers at the used car lot. Though I tried to stay out of his way, Mom was working extra shifts to make up the rent money and I was the sole whipping post for him to take out his aggression. She never caught on to my limping from a week of his beatings, as I was in bed when she arrived home and gone to school before she woke up in the morning. He certainly wasn't going to tell.
By my twelfth birthday he was drinking more than he was working, gambling wins bought our food. Mom was still pulling extra shifts and I was doing all the household chores. It was then the horror truly began. Though it was clear that the honeymoon was long over in their relationship, Mom still felt like he was the best thing that had ever happened in her life. She wasn't home when he came in smelling like cheap perfume and cigarettes. I was the one washing the lipstick out of his collar. If only I'd had the nerve to tell her then, maybe she would have left him.
It was shortly after my grandparents' fatal car accident that Mom had an aneurysm. She was serving up hash to the local truckers when she collapsed on the dingy tile of that desolate dirty spoon. When she collapsed, my world collapsed with her. The doctor hypothesized that she was probably dead the moment she hit the floor. At least she didn't suffer. I was thirteen and had nowhere else to go.
My life became a blur of beatings and abuse. If I was bad it was more welts from his leather belt. If I was good, my reward became late night visits to my room, fondling me in places no step-father has a right to touch. Not the attention I wanted. I had no one to turn to and nowhere to go. Once I tried to tell a teacher what was happening, which led to the greatest horror of my life. It was three days before I could get out of bed. My innocence had been beaten from me years before. That night my virginity was ripped from me forever and my spirit was dead from the mortal wound that spilled blood upon my sheets.
It barely registered that he didn't bother to come home the three days I had shut myself in my room. It was Labor Day weekend and he had apparently gone away somewhere. I didn't even care. Until he returned... bearing flowers, excuses, and apologies. For the first time I thought maybe things could get better. I was wrong. I suffered in silence night after night, month after month.
He came home reeking of cheap whiskey and didn't even bother to remove his coat and hat before heading for my room. It was my fifteenth birthday and I wasn't in bed, I was waiting. He stormed out of my empty room furiously screaming my name. I'm not even sure he knew what hit him as he careened down the stairs, tumbling like stones down a mountain.
I was sorry for what I'd done even before my heart had a chance to settle into a more normal rhythm. I could have just ran away, but I wanted the monster punished. When I reached the bottom of the stairs he was unconscious, but still breathing. I was even sorrier that he wasn't dead. I called 911 and walked out the door. After all, he was the monster, not I.
I was packing antiques in newspaper at work when I read he had died from alcohol poisoning three years later. The kind shop owner had given me shelter and food when she found me huddled in her doorway. No tears were shed that day, or since.
"Found" Flash Fiction Contest contest entry
Everyone has their limitations and I had reached mine. There is only so much abuse a person can take, and honestly, I couldn't believe I'd held on for this long. I'd done all I could out of love and respect for my mother, no matter if I didn't agree with her choices. The man of her dreams had always been nothing but a monster to me, from the day I was eight years old.
It was three days after my eighth birthday when they got married and twelve days afterward the first time he beat me. I had spent a week with my grandparents while they were away on their honeymoon. It was clear from the moment they returned that he wanted a wife, but not a child. My first spanking, as he called it, left welts on my backside and a scar on my leg. His pointed cowboy boots had a sharp corner that bit into my flesh as he held me down and beat me with his worn leather belt. That day I learned it was my responsibility to have his dinner on the table when he walked in the door after work, staggering drunk from the corner bar.
My mother worked nights waitressing at an all-night truck stop and left shortly before he made it home. She wasn't there to offer me protection or solace, and he threatened more beatings if I told. I knew that she loved him and tried to figure out why. He had swept her off her feet and moved us into a bigger apartment in a better part of town, but he was cruel, that was all I could see. We didn't have to worry where the rent would come from or if we would have enough food on the table. I decided at that young age that I had no choice but to keep my mouth shut and do as I was told.
The beatings came despite my best efforts. Once for too much starch in his shirt, the next time for not enough. It only got worse when he lost his job two years later for showing up late and too hung over to deal with the customers at the used car lot. Though I tried to stay out of his way, Mom was working extra shifts to make up the rent money and I was the sole whipping post for him to take out his aggression. She never caught on to my limping from a week of his beatings, as I was in bed when she arrived home and gone to school before she woke up in the morning. He certainly wasn't going to tell.
By my twelfth birthday he was drinking more than he was working, gambling wins bought our food. Mom was still pulling extra shifts and I was doing all the household chores. It was then the horror truly began. Though it was clear that the honeymoon was long over in their relationship, Mom still felt like he was the best thing that had ever happened in her life. She wasn't home when he came in smelling like cheap perfume and cigarettes. I was the one washing the lipstick out of his collar. If only I'd had the nerve to tell her then, maybe she would have left him.
It was shortly after my grandparents' fatal car accident that Mom had an aneurysm. She was serving up hash to the local truckers when she collapsed on the dingy tile of that desolate dirty spoon. When she collapsed, my world collapsed with her. The doctor hypothesized that she was probably dead the moment she hit the floor. At least she didn't suffer. I was thirteen and had nowhere else to go.
My life became a blur of beatings and abuse. If I was bad it was more welts from his leather belt. If I was good, my reward became late night visits to my room, fondling me in places no step-father has a right to touch. Not the attention I wanted. I had no one to turn to and nowhere to go. Once I tried to tell a teacher what was happening, which led to the greatest horror of my life. It was three days before I could get out of bed. My innocence had been beaten from me years before. That night my virginity was ripped from me forever and my spirit was dead from the mortal wound that spilled blood upon my sheets.
It barely registered that he didn't bother to come home the three days I had shut myself in my room. It was Labor Day weekend and he had apparently gone away somewhere. I didn't even care. Until he returned... bearing flowers, excuses, and apologies. For the first time I thought maybe things could get better. I was wrong. I suffered in silence night after night, month after month.
He came home reeking of cheap whiskey and didn't even bother to remove his coat and hat before heading for my room. It was my fifteenth birthday and I wasn't in bed, I was waiting. He stormed out of my empty room furiously screaming my name. I'm not even sure he knew what hit him as he careened down the stairs, tumbling like stones down a mountain.
I was sorry for what I'd done even before my heart had a chance to settle into a more normal rhythm. I could have just ran away, but I wanted the monster punished. When I reached the bottom of the stairs he was unconscious, but still breathing. I was even sorrier that he wasn't dead. I called 911 and walked out the door. After all, he was the monster, not I.
I was packing antiques in newspaper at work when I read he had died from alcohol poisoning three years later. The kind shop owner had given me shelter and food when she found me huddled in her doorway. No tears were shed that day, or since.
 Recognized |
Write a "Found" Flash Fiction (250-1000 word) story. "Find" your inspiration from a book currently on your shelves, on page 99 and paragraph two. You will choose your story nugget from the prose found there.
You may look (at most!) at THREE books before choosing one of them as your inspiration.
Your Author Notes must include:
(1.) the line that inspired your story (verbatim)
(2.) book title and author name
(3.) your story's word count
* Keep in mind that true flash fiction is not a story about a 'snippet of time'. It is a complete story in a short format that still requires a beginning, middle (climax) and conclusion.
Maximum number of words = 1000.
I was sorry for what I'd done even before my heart had a chance to settle into a more normal rhythm, and sorrier still when he picked up his hat and began brushing at it with one dirty hand. Pg. 99, paragraph 2 from "11/22/63" by Stephen King. 1000 words.
I assure you this is purely fiction.
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. You may look (at most!) at THREE books before choosing one of them as your inspiration.
Your Author Notes must include:
(1.) the line that inspired your story (verbatim)
(2.) book title and author name
(3.) your story's word count
* Keep in mind that true flash fiction is not a story about a 'snippet of time'. It is a complete story in a short format that still requires a beginning, middle (climax) and conclusion.
Maximum number of words = 1000.
I was sorry for what I'd done even before my heart had a chance to settle into a more normal rhythm, and sorrier still when he picked up his hat and began brushing at it with one dirty hand. Pg. 99, paragraph 2 from "11/22/63" by Stephen King. 1000 words.
I assure you this is purely fiction.
Picture courtesy of Pixabay
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