An icy wind blows through the small window, stirring the blinds and letting in a small wisp of milky moon light.
You stand in front of your full length mirror, shirt lifted to the top of your rib cage, examining your bruises. They are no more than a day old but the distinct shape of a hand was still visible on your right side, looking almost like patches of dark mud in contrast of your pale skin. You poke them and wince as the pain brings back fresh memories of his cruel faces. His burning eyes.
The smell of beer and blood and sweat still clings to your torn clothes. You force your sore body out of your ragged clothes and into some comfortable sweats, and settle cautiously onto the sill of your window, opening it further to allow the cold breeze to caress your sensitive skin.
Looking out over the back yard, you can see the slightest crystals of frost slowly creeping up your beloved oak tree. The tree that held so many memories of your childhood and winters past.
You see the headlights of your fathers truck and watch in disgust as he stumbles up the front porch and through the stairs, slamming the door behind him immediately earning screams from your mother. You try to tune out the sounds of their argument, the sounds of objects being thrown. But the sounds only seem louder.
"YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY! " A shrill cry from your mother erupted, followed the sound of flesh hitting flesh. You could hear the women crying out in pain.
You didn't even move.
They where always like this. One always beating the other. You had learned long ago not to care, especially when your father turned to you too and all you could do is shut down while your mother watched, doing nothing.
You hated her most of all.
More than your father who beat you and touched you whether he was drunk or no.
More than the kids at school who were once your friends but now taunted you for your fathers sick habits.
Because she just stood there. Because she did nothing.
You had almost begun to drift to sleep when heavy footsteps could be heard coming down the hall and you rise in a half panicked state, looking for somewhere to flee . This was the same as always, always he would find you. But something...something was different. You wanted to escape, more than usual. Freedom felt so close this time,or maybe the frigid air had frozen something in your head.
The door handle had only begun to rattle when you sat crouched on your window eying the snow bank below you, trying to estimate the damage if you landed there.
"Come here you little bitch." You whirl around to see your father stumbling towards you. His hands are covered in blood. It splattered on his face. You realize it is eerily quiet down stairs.
Without waiting for the deranged man to get his hands on you, you glance down at the snow covered ground one more time bracing yourself for impact,