Heartless

By Al Goatley All Rights Reserved ©

Drama

Blurb

Overcome by the might of anxiety, she could no longer contain her tears. Her heart had been ripped from her chest and forcefully trampled upon it as it lay on the cold hard ground. He kicked it, spat upon it, as it beat and bled as if still within her chest. She buried her face into her sweaty palms for she could do nothing but whimper and weep. She no longer had a soul, just a lifeless living body. Her eyes dulled as she awaited death, longing for freedom from this hell called earth. Her tears slid down her soiled cheeks as she struggled to remain strong. He may have conquered her heart but she still had a sense of dignity. Certainly, she would not grant him the satisfaction of witnessing her vulnerability. Her chapped swollen lips quivered as the north wind brushed his winter kiss upon them. She shivered and quivered with fear, but she decided she must remain stoic as a stone. She tried to shrug off the pressure despite the non-literal lack of a vital organ, but the pain was too great. The wound bled out and fell victim to the sheer cold night.

Heartless

Overcome by the might of anxiety, she could no longer contain her tears. Her heart had been ripped from her chest and forcefully trampled upon it as it lay on the cold hard ground. He kicked it, spat upon it, as it beat and bled as if still within her chest. She buried her face into her sweaty palms for she could do nothing but whimper and weep.

She no longer had a soul, just a lifeless living body. Her eyes dulled as she awaited death, longing for freedom from this hell called earth. Her tears slid down her soiled cheeks as she struggled to remain strong. He may have conquered her heart but she still had a sense of dignity. Certainly, she would not grant him the satisfaction of witnessing her vulnerability.

Her chapped swollen lips quivered as the north wind brushed his winter kiss upon them. She shivered and quivered with fear, but she decided she must remain stoic as a stone. She tried to shrug off the pressure despite the non-literal lack of a vital organ, but the pain was too great. The wound bled out and fell victim to the sheer cold night.

Her black and blue eye throbbed ever slightly as her battered lungs rattled beneath a fractured ribcage. She laid upon the ground in a fetal position, cradling her knees and biting her lips to help silence her cries. Her father stood over her shriveling soul, gazing at his bloodied knuckles. His daughter’s blood drenched his hands as his eyes widened as his heart began to pound. He knelt to the ground and sat beside his daughter.

“S-Samantha…” He stuttered, “I’m so sorry…”

She refused to look at him, her eyes remained buried behind her hair to help conceal her tears. The only important man in her heavily isolated life, had beaten her. Broken her. Shattered her spirit. The smell of whisky was in his breath and the smell of cigarette smoke clung to his clothes. His hair was a mess and gradually graying. His dark green eyes buried behind scratched up glasses with deep dark bags lingering beneath them.

He picked her up gently and cradled her within his scrawny arms. He looked down at his daughter, and wiped away a speck of blood from a crevice within her cracked lips. He drew her closer and closer to him and checked for a pulse, she was alive and conscious. Though now she lacked the ability to sit up or even speak.

Ashamed that he let the alcohol and his temper get the best of him, he hung his head low as he brushed aside his daughter’s bangs. Her eyes seemed gazed and rather unresponsive to her surroundings. Her father spoke softly, murmuring complete nonsense from the alcohol that ran deep within his bloodstream.

“S-Sammy,” he cried, “My little g-girl…”

Slowly she moved and broke free from his gentle grasp, tears streaming down her pale bloodied face. She limped a few feet away from his and turned away from him, her eyes focusing upon the floor beneath her bare feet. Her lips quivered as she struggled to find the right words.

“I-I,” she finally spoke, “h-hate you-u…”

Her father eyes widened as tears grew present from his eyes. His heart split in two.

She wobbled and limped out the room and out of her father’s life. He was nothing to her. She understood his frustration regarding her mother’s apparent suicide. She felt the pain and longed for her mother’s warm hugs each night. She missed her sweet singing voice that would echo throughout the empty house as she worked as a housewife every Sunday morning prior to going to church. When her mother died, the family died with her. Not a word was spoken during the family dinner. The house was silent every Sunday morning and the now family of two no longer bothered to even listen the slightly implied word of the God, who had stolen the life of the family.

Raised in a strict religious household, her father was once a man of incredible faith. He followed everything according to how he interpreted God’s will. Though without his wife, he lost his life of faith. No longer was he a man bound to the grace of God, he turned to a bottle of booze for comfort each night and would come home well after midnight, smelling of vomit and smoked cigars. His daughter could do nothing but watch her own father waste his precious life. She was far too young comprehend the complexity of addiction, despair and death. Without a mother and a true father, the young girl was quick to discover the true cruel nature of life. Life was unforgiving. Life was made of intolerance. Life was hell.

Still without shoes, she stood in the snow. Sniffling and shivering due to the unkind climate of a winter’s night. She was a pale as the moon that she gazed at through the woods of towering trees. She adjusted the strap of her overalls and began to finally escape her father’s fists and temper. Through an open window, she heard a shout from behind from her father, warning her of the dangers that lurked within the forest, but she didn’t head a single precaution. She continued to walk in the wilderness, ready to claim her freedom. She was done with being his personal punching bag his indirect scapegoat of his burdens.

Write a Review Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, Al Goatley
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