Lace My Skin With Blood

"You don't know what I've been through! Stupid, ugly girl!" He hits me once again and I hold in a loud cry. He attempts to put me in a headlock to slam my head against the wall, but I fortunatley slip away and I dart to my room and lock myself inside.

You probably think I am talking about some scary man who broke into my house, stole our money, and is trying to kill me. But no, not even close. This man that tried to kill me a few seconds ago, the one who was moments away from ending my 13-year-old life is my father, Dirk Mabee.

I collapse onto my bed and grip tightly onto my pillow and I scream. I stain the pillow's silky cloth with tears, blood, and weak yelps. I wish I had a daddy who did his best to keep his little girl safe. Yet, mine does every little thing he can to torture and threaten me, inside and out.

After many terribly long minutes of my cries drowned out by my father's shrieks toward me, I toss the pillow onto the floor and I stand up. I catch a glimse of myself in my bedroom mirror. Obviously, whatever beauty I ever had before has been scared off by the monster my dad has constructed of me. A bright red hand mark traces my cheek and my forehead is laced with cuts and blood from my mother's favorite vase he chucked at me out of anger. A tear wishes to drip from my left eye, but I slowly wipe it away. I will not cry. I will be strong. I have to be. It's all I know.

You see, a while back, when my daddy was actually normal, he met my mother, Lacie, in his hometown in Connecticut while she was there for college. They fell madly in love, went on dates and such, and he proposed. Of corse, because my dad was the sweetest man she'd ever met, she said yes. Once my mom graduated college, they moved back to Colorado, where my mother grew up. There, they decided to have a baby, which ended up being me, Oakley Mabee. They loved and adored their new baby girl.

When I hit the age of 4, they had another baby, my baby brother Drake. My mother loved the new baby, but my dad wasn't so thrilled. He was already suffering from depression from work and memories of his parents who died gruesomely by a mad killer that he witnessed. On top of that, my brother wasn't the best baby. He bawled and was picky about every little thing, unlike I was. He and mom began fighting and screaming at eachother and I could hear them from my little toddler room nestled upstairs. Yet, they refused to divorce since they still loved eachother. This is the reason my mother was so curious about my father's random angry outbreaks. She searched and searched around the house until she found a big box inside my dad's closet filled with alcohol. My mother was shocked. My father was never the drinking type. He only drank to cure his depression, but unfortunately, anger and hate replaced his sadness. One day, when I was seven and Drake was three, he came home from primary school angry. He screamed about how mean his teacher was and how rude his friends could be. Drake expected comfort and soothing words from his father, but instead, dad spit out veminous words right back at my baby brother. Scared, Drake backed away slowly as tears began to form in his tiny 3-year-old eyes.

The rest is history. Basically, Drake almost bled to death but he ran away instead, which spared his life. That little boy ran and ran and ran. My mother was gone at work and I was still at school when mom got a call from my dad saying her little boy ran away from home. Mom didn't even have a clue that her sweet husband she met in Connecticut that almost killed her baby boy. She didn't have a clue how dangerous her husband was. That is, until she got home from work that same day.