Requiem

"Monsters and ghosts are real. They live inside of us, and sometimes they win." - Stephen King
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         A black creature stirred above me in the wet branches of a tall tree. 'Caw, caw!' . The crow called, and I glimpsed up at it for a moment. We held this intense gaze for a short eternity. It's ebony feathers glistened against what little light crept through the angry clouds and the grey sun.

         I wondered what sort of life this bird lived. If he ever had regrets too. If he had a family. If maybe he wondered the same things. I'm sure that the complexity of a bird's mind is not extensive. There is only survival to contemplate. But I was only stalling; taking my time as I walked the dreary path home on a dreary day.

         The rain had soaked through my clothes, and I could feel the drenched cloth plastered against my pale shell. But I didn't really care. I could withstand this bitter cold for a little longer, if only to avoid the affronted maladies.

         The frigid air crawled up my skin, like little bugs made of ice. My hair stood on end, and my blue eyes eclipsed and my dark hair fell in my face as I forced myself along the dull path.

         It was a trail made of pavement, and the black was starting to fade with age. A perennial copse of Douglas firs acted like walls closing in on me with each step I took. The russet setting was so somber and anesthetic, but I kept moving.

         I could never really remember my mother clearly. I only see a haze of blonde hair, blonde like the flaxen grandeur of a gold bar. I see a graceful smile full of teeth. Old skin and freckles from spending too many days under the sun. Blue eyes as deep as the ocean and as far as the stars.

         She did all of those things that mothers are supposed to do. Especially the things that mothers do in Hollywood movies. Hold you. Love you.

         Dad never talked about her though, and I never felt at liberty to ask what exactly happened. Whenever I did muster the bravery to pop out the question, I was only answered with silence.

         Once, while he was at work, I snuck into the basement and shuffled through the dusty file cases. I swear I saw something. The corner of a burnt edge of paper. A photograph perhaps?

         My fingers barely scraped the edges of the picture. "What the hell are you doing down here?" He had that icy look in his eyes as he started for the buckle at his wide hips.

"N-nothing."

"Get over here." There was this lecturing tone in the way he spoke, and he sharply thrust his arm before himself; pointing to the empty space.

"No." I shook my head as I slowly backed away.

"Now."

"P-please... I-I'm sorry. I won't come down here again."

"You're right. You won't come down here again. Not after I show you what happens to little girls who don't do what they're told." I watched as he slowly ripped the belt from it's holes, folding it in half and snapping it along his hand.

"You get over here, or so help me-"

"No!" I should have done something. Shouldn't have been so stupid. Maybe If I'd listened to him in the beginning, then maybe he wouldn't have gotten so angry? maybe he wouldn't have hit me so hard?

         He grabbed me by the arm, but I fell back as I pulled away. He cursed more and more, as if there were demons riding on his soul. And then, he raised his weapon of choice and the smell of the leather burned my nostrils.

         I screamed before he touched me.... But after a couple of minutes, it stopped hurting. The pain just became this numb sensation as his marks overlapped the others. It's funny how the marks humans leave, are often only scars.

         I was eight then. I stopped screaming by the time I was around thirteen. That was almost four years ago. I just got sick of waiting for someone to come save me. Because no one was ever going to come. There are no heroes like the ones in comic books.

         I screamed so hard, but no one ever heard me. Why didn't they hear me? I couldn't run away. He would find me. I couldn't do anything. Worthless, stupid, pile of malignant nothing.

         I just wanted to know. Know who I was, known who my mother was. Did she ever love me? Did she sing me lullabies like the mothers do on Hallmark? Or was it just a dream; a memory from a good movie?

         Maybe God just doesn't love em enough?

         I bit my lips as I stood before the cadaverous construction. A home, a ghost of a happy place with happy memories.

         At that moment, the dingy screen-door was the most foreboding thing in the world to me. Everything inside of me wasn't where it was supposed to be. My brain was in my mouth, my heart in my stomach. Lungs in my nostrils, and stomach down to my toes.

"Eh... Where 'ave ya' been?" His muffled, slurred words curved with violence as he took another swig from the bottle of whiskey. I just stood there quietly, staring down at my feet.

"I... It was raining." That was the best excuse I had.

"So? You have legs. You can run."

"O-oh..." I mumbled, and he wobbled up shakily from the time-stained recliner.

"Come on- get over e're." But I just stood there, staring at anything but him.

"I said get over e're!" He started to bark, words ruffled and stormy. "When I tell you to do somethin', you do it!"

"Please... Don't." Through the years, I had lost the strong sense of emotion that was once very evident. At school, I could manage a simple lie. The true fear, the innocence- I was just so tired that I couldn't muster the right sentiment.

Crash!

         My gaze flitted back up, and I eyed the smashed end of the broken whiskey bottle. His grip on it swayed as he waved it around and started towards me.

"I'm gonna- I'm gonna teach you a lesson." And then he threw it at me. He threw the broken bottle at me. I let out a quick breath of shock, narrowly dodging it- but I wasn't ready in time to turn around and defend myself as he came at me.

         His swelling, callused hands encircled my throat and he dug his nails into the flesh as he lifted another brown bottle over his head. "I'll show you... I'll show all of you." He mumbled this, and his ethanol-breath wafted around me. Cradling me in it's intoxicating firewater.

         I don't believe that grief changes you. It simply reveals you.

         And then the bottle came crashing down on me. The impact was too much. I was caving in. Gone. I could feel the drops of spirit dancing down my face. It was as good as tears. The sinking feeling began to consume me, and I was partially curious whether I was just going to sleep for a while or die.

         But then a familiar voice broke down the door. My father dropped me, and I hit the floor. Hard.

"Stop! Don't you dare touch her! The- the police are on their way!" I saw a haze of skin and hair. The house erupted into broken sounds and angry bellows, but I couldn't fight the dismal blackout eclipsing my thoughts.

Was that voice meant for me? Was someone finally coming to save me?