beat // bruise // break

TW: child abuse

i’m here, i’m here, i’m here.

du-dum, du-dum, du-dum.

there is a little child inside me – a little child who wants out.

she bangs beneath my chest: notice me, notice me, notice me. 

i ignore her because i am afraid of what she will do if she gets out.

–

“i’ve never seen your dad before!” 

i shrug, “yeah, we aren’t that close.” an image whirls:

he shoves me to the floor the summer before i turn five. 

i shout, my screams bleed into sobs. try to swallow my sorrow as a slow burn of bitterness shoves down. 

i bite my lip through each lash. 

one. du-dum. 

two. du-dum.

three. du-dum. 

he strikes an anatomy-accurate representation of the human heart on my back.

four. du-dum. 

five. du-dum.

it is summer and i am too small.

du-dum, du-dum, du-dum builds up. a voice mutters, high-pitched, croaky, stop.

six. du-dum. the lashes do not cease.

the voice is louder, now. it is summer and i am too young to not listen to any instruction given. stop sobbing, it says, stomp.

“COUNT OUT LOUD!” he sneers.

“seven,” i taste metallic malice.

turn around! it howls. hurt him right back!

“eight. nine. ten…”

–

the door is unlocked when i come home. 

it reeks of beer, this pungent type of stinging sharpness i still have not gone accustomed to. 

i step over the cans on the floor and shoo away the flies that swarm near me.

the figure passed out on the floor beside the kitchen is not related to me, i try to convince myself when i spot him. 

du-dum. step on him, the little girl whispers. i step over him instead, left sole barely missing one puddle out of the mosaic on the floor.

du-dum, du-dum. i shake my hands like i could flick the sweat off them. snap my fingers because i do execute it properly so it is silent when i do so. 

he used to tell me he didn’t drink often, “i don’t even like the taste.” 

but i was seven years old when he was supposed to be taking me on a day out. he ordered a pint with his burger and sat in the booth with empty cups piling as i bowled. i won all the games even though he was thrice my size and strength because he couldn’t even tell which lane we were assigned. du-dum, du-dum, du-dum. throw it at him, i picked up a 6-pound ball marbled in shades of green. my fingers are clammy when i slot them inside the three holes, other hand supporting it on the bottom. i turn away from the pins in their perfect triangular formation. he throws his head back after slamming down another glass, an inch of amber liquid remaining on the bottom. 

shades of green blur in my hand. i take two steps toward him. he looks at me when i am near, the table separating us. his eyes look cloudy and confused, like he doesn’t know who i am. 

the ball drops from my fingers. one of his glasses topple over from the impact and shatters. the bowl bounces thrice, echoing through the alley. 

we get kicked out. he tries to punch the worker but misses by half a foot. punch him. you won’t miss, the little girl beats her little fists at the wall of my chest. 

i don’t. he doesn’t even recognize me in this state. 

–

we draw family trees in elementary school. the teacher asks why i have drawn a frowny face for my father and a sad face for me. she tells me that i misunderstood the assignment: a family tree has to have more than two people. 

i shrug. i tell her mom was buried in june. 

the teacher’s expression morphs, matching the frown i drew. she sends me to talk to a woman whose teeth are too large for her face and whose eyebrows move too much. i watch them wiggle as she asks me question after question.

“tell me about your dad. do you think he is a very angry person?”

du-dum. say yes. i don’t trust the voice, so i tell her no.

“why did you draw angry eyebrows and a frown for him?”

du-dum, du-dum. i shrug.

“do you know about more people in your family?”

“is it only your dad and you who live at home?”

“can you tell me about your life at home?”

“do you feel safe at home?”

du-dum, du-dum, du-dum. the questions pile up and pile up and keep piling up. i watch her too-large teeth appear and disappear beneath her lips.

my own lips spout the opposite of whatever the voice says.

say no. 

“i guess i feel safe.” du-dum. say no. tell her he hurts you. “my father is fine.”

he hurts you. “he’s fine.” du-dum, du-dum. he hurts you! “it’s fine.” tell her! “fine.”

i can still see the outlines of teeth when she does this strange thing with her lips, like she’s trying to hug her teeth with them. the outline of her teeth grow sharper with every “fine” i answer. 

i think that she might pierce the skin of her lips with her teeth. they are so sharp, so large, and skin is so fragile. i know because my skin breaks every time father pulls out the belt, raising into ridges on my back the size of my pinky fingernail. 

du-dum, du-dum, du-dum. how much blood would flow out if her teeth cut through?

the lady thanks me at the end, though i am unsure why. she tells me she will see me soon, though she also said she’s heard enough, so i do not know why i will need to see her again. 

the voice quiets a bit after i leave her office. 

three days later, some people in suits show up at our door. father is wearing a freshly stained shirt when they tell me to leave the room while they ask him some questions. 

father tells me to stay because i am his daughter and he wants me with him, all the time. i am ‘his girl,’ he announces. 

second after mother, father knows best. second after mother, i am his. 

so i stay. he lifts his arm – du-dum i lean away – he wraps it around me. almost gently. du-dum doesn’t calm.

–

my father moves his arm from around me to bury his face in his hands. “it’s just been so hard since losing my wife, you know? i’ve been scraping by with my daughter. we eat meals with an empty space at the table, we watch television without her commentary, we sleep without waking up to her morning coffee.”

the people nod. one of them has glass bowls for eyes.

du-dum. no! she screams. he doesn’t feed you. he doesn’t care about your entertainment. he never stops sleeping! she howls, hurling her hands with every lie my father tells. 

“…being a single father, i’ve been putting in twice the effort for my girl…”

the people are nodding. du-dum the girl is banging her head against me. turn around and lift up your shirt. show them! 

du-dum. you have visible proof. use it. i shift against the sofa. i am ignored as my father is handed tissues. du-dum i lift the corner of my shirt, du-dum i open my mouth –

“okay, you’re all set, then,” the people stand up. “i’m sorry for your loss. keep taking good care of zoe, yeah?” 

father smiles at them as they leave. his teeth are yellowing, but his smile small enough that one can’t really tell unless they’re three inches from one’s face and spitting insults.

the people don’t come back after that visit. i keep looking out the window anyway. the girl grows angrier each day there are no knocks.

–

list of my father’s qualities

1. drives too quick. there are always horns honked at us, but he just rolls the windows down and flips them off, jerking again to prove the damage power he held. 

i am six years old, too short for the passenger seat. my head gets slammed against the door with every turn. it is all i can do to not throw up. i think about the video of car crashes i have watched: the people in the backseat are likely to suffer more damage due to lack of airbags.

or: my father could kill me in a car, just as he could kill me with his hands. du-dum she wails, you can’t die first.

1. acts sickly sweet when sober. tells me that he can’t help it. sighs, i wouldn’t understand it yet. 

the thread between cutting off the relationship and mending it is thin, but i am too young to do the former without consequences. i have watched what happens to children in the orphanage. 

when we make paper snowflakes for christmas, the teacher gives me the big scissors because there aren’t enough of the small ones. she says she trusts me with them. du-dum, du-dum, i cut the pattern out, cut the thread. cut your father.

1. believes i should give him unconditional love. “make me something for my birthday! put those hands to good use.”

i make him a card shaped like a suit and tie for Father’s Day because it was a school assignment. i find it covered in vomit three hours later, a coaster for another can. du-dum, du-dum, du-dum. put those hands to good use.

–

mother died in the afternoon on the tenth day of june. i had come home from riding my bike, dirt caked in my fingernails, when i found my father sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by shards of her favorite mug.

“she’s dead,” he had said. “my wife is dead.” 

that was the first time he forgot that she was also my mom.

“what?” i hear thudding in my ears. du-dum. du-dum.

“don’t ‘what’ me! go to the cabinet, there, and get me the pack of cans,” his finger shook when he pointed.

i did as asked, accidentally cutting my foot on a shard when handing it to him.

he looked up, one can already downed, when i hissed.

“useless girl,” he muttered. 

the thudding gets louder. du-dum. du-dum. i press my hands over my ears, but i can still hear it.

“don’t cover your ears when i’m talking to you!” father shouts. his voice is still less loud than the du-dum, du-dum, du-dum.

he stands up, wobbling on his feet. he seems to tower over me. 

i whimper, trying to scramble away, but i touch another piece of ceramic. i look at my palm, and blood has filled the crack that mom told me was my lifeline. “look how long,” she had traced my palm, “you’re going to live such a long, prosperous life.”

du-dum, du-dum, du-dum. father is screaming words i cannot decipher above me, but i know he is scary and i am hurt, and i am crying, and there is blood across my hands and feet, and the only thing i know how to do is cry out for my mom.

“she’s dead!” father screams, spit flying into my face. i cry louder, du-dum, du-dum, du-dum consuming my breaths. “you hear? she’s dead! she’s dead! she’s dead!”

–

“‘zoe’ means life,” lydia tells me. we sit knee-to-knee on her carpet at a playdate that her parents had arranged. “and lydia means ‘beautiful one,’” her nose wrinkles, “that’s boring.”

“i think it suits you.”

lydia types something else into the search bar. “your last name, damon, means to kill. that’s funny, your name is life-to-kill.” 

i sigh. “my mom’s last name is rose. it’s so much prettier. i wish i was zoe rose instead.”

zoe tilts her head to look at me, bottom lip slightly jutting out. she looks like a puppy, but i’ve never had pets, so i can’t read her eyes when she blinks at me thrice and says, “okay. i’ll call you zoe rose, then.”

–

“zoe rose! zoe rose! my mom asks if you want to get frozen yogurt with us this friday after school. she said she can talk to your dad if you say yes.”

that friday, lydia’s mom lets me put as many toppings as i want on my dessert.

lydia’s mom gets out of the car to drop me off at my front door. “hang in there,” she whispers, “lydia is so lucky to have you as a friend.”

for the whole afternoon, the voice stays silent.

–

lydia invites me over to make cookies. we roll pale balls in cinnamon sugar. lydia’s soft hands kneading soft dough – my own are cracked and they tremble. her gaze lingers a bit too long on the bruises on my knuckles. 

two strands of her hair have escaped from her bun. they frame her face.

my palms sweat and the butter starts to melt. “you have to work fast because your hands have heat,” she explains. 

i try to move my hands fast but elbow strikes bowl – brown-white particles spray across the counter and the floor. my chest seizes. du-dum, du-dum, du-dum. i wait for hot palms to strike. 

she laughs instead, “don’t worry. it’s just sugar.”

–

i buy a photo frame from the thrift store. brought using cash, of course. 

here’s a tip if you have a father like mine: always keep your cash on your body. he’ll find it anywhere else when he’s drunk enough and desperate enough. he found mine buried under layers of my underwear and hidden in the pages of my books. 

i frame a candid of lydia and place her next to my clock.

awake and the clock quakes – i dreamt of her hand.

i dreamt of her hand and it was soft, i dreamt of your hand and it was soft and it was in mine. 

my trembling hands now hold her portrait. 

du-dum, du-dum, du-dum. cinnamon spice scratches up my skin – it drops and breaks into two, sharp as a cry. 

–

“come over for christmas,” lydia’s voice springs from the phone speaker. “please, come over. you would be more than welcome here.”

“are you sure your parents would be okay with it?” i mutter, pacing. 

“they said yes, i told you. here, i’ll literally get them on the phone right now.”

“wait, no, please don’t —” my shoulders squeeze, hugging my ears. 

“dad!” she chirps, half-muffled.

the phone slips from my grip. it clatters on the floor. du-dum, du-dum i wince, shoulders to earlobes.

note of advice: it doesn’t hurt less when you curl up into yourself. but your body will do it anyway, so it’s best to just let it. maybe if you pretend that it’s making a difference for long enough, your pain will actually believe it too. 

i don’t know. it hasn’t been long enough for my pain.

“…zoe is asking if you’re okay with her coming over for christmas dinner,” comes through, faintly. 

“oh, hi zoe!” a lower voice reverberates. “of course, we would be so happy to host you.”

“see? i told her. thanks dad!”

footsteps scurry away, echoing on the hollow floorboards. 

“zoe? you there?”

i hum. 

“there you go, that’s your answer.” she pauses to take a breath. “please come! i really want you to.”

–

i am engulfed before even setting foot in lydia’s house with the ‘christmas spirit’ i’ve only ever seen in commercials. a christmas tree illuminates their living room in hazy yellow and red, and soft christmas music dances around the space. her mother is wearing a ‘best mom ever’ apron, chopping up veggies, singing softly to the tunes. her little brother is stirring something on the stove, some of it spilling over; her father is bent over the sink, hands deep in soapy dishes. lydia beams in the center of the sizzling and fragrance and family, holding her arms out.

“welcome home,” she puts her still-damp hands on my shoulders. “glad you made it.” 

du-dum, you’re safe here.

while i try to help them assemble the pie for dessert, my phone pings with message after message. i keep peeking at the screen, watching the messages flow by on my lock page. 

“come home for christmas” written in a variety of ways. i know he’s drunk because neither home nor christmas are spelled correctly. 

the screen lights with a call. lydia notices.

“don’t answer,” she pats my shoulder. “come on, let’s be jolly tonight, yeah? it’s christmas.”

i nod. press decline with the finger not covered in flour.

i’m here, i’m here, i’m here.

du-dum, du-dum, du-dum.

lydia’s brother mentions that my phone has stopped pinging. he is half the size of lydia with hair twice as messy. 

“yeah, my father’s probably sleeping now,” i tell him.

“he can still sleep on christmas?”

“he’s never been able to not sleep.” du-dum, du-dum, du-dum gets louder. he’s always sleeping.

DU-DUM. DU-DUM. DU-DUM. 

“are you sure you don’t want to just sleep over? you can borrow my clothes, i promise,” zoe’s thin eyebrows furrow even thinner. 

i nod at her, swallowing hard. du-dum, du-dum, du-dum threatens to lurch from my lips. i keep them squeezed tight. 

zoe pulls me into an embrace, digging her chin into my shoulder. du-dum, du-dum, du-dum reverberates through both our bodies. i know my shoulder is shaking underneath her chin.

“thank you for coming over,” she mutters. i nod into her hair. du-dum.

“please be safe, yeah?” i nod again. du-dum.

“i love you.” du— 

my muscles freeze. zoe’s chin pulses warm against the fabric of my shirt.

slowly, i nod, once more.

“i love you more,” slips past my lips.

–

lydia unbuckles her seatbelt to walk me to the door. nudges her shoulder against mine, gently, the same shoulder that’s still glowing. we stand facing each other, me inside the room, her on the threshold, neither wanting to step away. 

it’s a gust of wind that moves the door, that makes us whisper goodbyes and final merry christmasses, that makes her starting backing away and my hand to shut the door completely, hand on the lock.

it’s the sound of the door securely closed that starts du-dum, du-dum, du-dum up again.

–

DU-DUM. DU-DUM. DU-DUM. 

I’M HERE. I’M HERE. I’M HERE. 

stubble coats the bottom half of his face. his mouth is open, a stream of drool pooling out the corner. he’s laying flat on his back in the kitchen, surrounded by empty bottles as always. one is broken by his feet.

DU-DUM. how convenient.

i shrug off my sweater, tying part of it around my hand. DU-DUM i pick up the largest shard.

the sharp end of it meets his stubble-coated throat.

DU-DUM. DU-DUM.

my father stays sleeping.

merry christmas, father.