Chapter 1
•Edited•
′my small feet slowly made their way down the plush carpet steps toward the basement door. The worn wooden door towering over my small 6 year old self.
I slowly reached up, opening the loud creaking door. Listening for my father I slowly made my way down the steps, the thin wooden stairs creaking beneath my feet.
“Mom” my soft voice called out into the darkness. I stepped onto the stool bellow the light switch, flicking on the dim lights. What I saw scarred me for life.
My mom was hanging down by a rope tied around her wrists. It hung from a hook on the ceiling. Head hung low, torn clothes, cuts and bruises, scars and all. I ran to her as fast as my little beet would go.
“Mom, mommy wake up” I said, shaking her body as much as my small hands could.
Her eyes slowly peeled open, looking me over in my little pink princess pajamas. She asked me to get the pocket knife in my father's toolbox and give it to her.
I retrieved the object and climbed on the table behind her to reach her hands. She cut the rope and got herself out, collapsing on the ground.
After about 5 minutes of collecting herself she got up and ushered me upstairs, ignoring my worried and panicked questions.
She asked me to alert her if my father woke up. Soon she came out of my room with my white ballet duffle bag, and began filling it with her clothes. As silent as she could she left her and my father's room, and walked to the front door.
Opening the front door she kissed my forehead and said “I-I’ll come back to get you, then I’ll explain.” Then she closed the door, louder than she expected, awaking my father, but she didn't turn back.
He ran down the steps looking tired. “Rayne, Rayne what’s going on” he said, swaying. I just stared at him, frozen. He walked to me, slowly to ensure he didn’t trip. He smelled of something strong and overbearing.
He shook me by the shoulders repeat my name, gradually getting louder. “Rayne, Rayne...”
"Rayne, RAYNE" my father roared up the steps. I sat up in my bed, taking a look at my alarm clock. 3am, when my father usually gets back from drinking.
I got out of my bed, running down the steps to
my drunk father in the kitchen. Mentally preparing myself for the beating, I stepped into the room.
