Monday, November 19, 2012
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Giuffrida Rev 2
Name: Amy Giuffrida
Genre: YA, Gothic/Horror
Title: The Bleeding Heart
“Stupid son of a bitch! God! What were you thinking? Have you just totally lost your ever lovin’ mind? You didn’t think they’d come after you?”
“Calm down Brooklyn. Everything will be okay.”
Really? I don’t say anything more because we’ve already been through this more times than I can count. Here I am at midnight tossing all of my belongings into our rusted 90’s station wagon all because my father needs to get away. Yet again he owes some low-life hustler a ton of cash that he can’t give him. Totally not anything new in this family, but I am so sick to death of running. Every time it happens I have to start over and it just keeps getting harder to do.
The really funny thing about our situation is that the guy we’re running from, Carlo, well he’s fat so really we don’t need to run. He won’t catch us. I know that using the word fat is taboo, but when have you ever heard someone calling a drug lord morbidly obese? Not gonna happen, the dude is fat! Carlo obviously isn’t feared for his stealth-like moves, because let’s face it, a guy weighing 400 plus pounds can barely walk. No. It’s the crazy orders of violence he gives his soldiers to carry out. With just the nod of his big head people are maimed and even killed. Rumor has it that with one head shake, a man owing Carlo just five dollars could lose a finger or two. No way does dad want to stick around to see what Carlo has in mind for him; for us. I don’t have any idea how much money he owes Carlo or what he did to attract this type of attention, but I’m not really caring right now. I just know that we have to get out of here. Now.
With the car window down, the air hits my face and I’ m wide awake. It’s four in the morning and I am utterly exhausted, but yet here I am with my eyes wide open. I’m not so much thinking about tonight’s events, but what lay ahead of me. What town we’ll end up in next. After a couple hours on the road already, I don’t see any sign that dad is ready to stop. We have lived in quite a few towns near-by, so I guess we’re moving further away this time. Away from everything I’ve known for the past year. I can’t even guess at what will happen next. Will we stay for a few weeks in a motel? Find an apartment to rent? Somehow run into an old friend of dad’s who’ll let us stay rent-free for a while? Who knows.
Does it even matter where we end up? Not really. Most girls my age would just collapse after such trauma but you see, I am not your average ordinary girl. I don’t look like any of those sweet perky twelve year-olds. I’m--different. I like black. Black everything. I don’t want people to really notice me, so black fits. Although I love wearing black clothes, I do not dye my hair black and wear heavy black eyeliner. That’s just trashy and not my style, plus it would call too much attention to myself.
I tend to hide in plain sight. I hide behind my clothes and my plain, strait brown hair. No one really knows who I am, not even dear old dad. If he really knew what was inside of me, he’d consider turning me over to the state. Maybe have me committed so that no harm came to me or someone else. He’d wonder how Brooklyn Rose, his beautiful baby girl, could have hidden her thorns for so long. Never allowed them to take a chunk out of someone. Never make someone bleed. Dad doesn’t need to really know me; what I think about. What I crave. It will be my secret. The one I don’t let anyone see.
“You alright over there Brooklyn?”
“Yeah dad. Tell me, what did you do this time?”
“Don’t worry about it. This is all just one big misunderstanding. Carlo will get over it and we’ll be able to go back home soon.”
“That’s what you said last time about Ramone. We never went back dad.”
“That was different.”
I could recite this conversation in my head. We’ve had the same one more times than I could count, but I just don’t have the heart to really find out why we had to slip away in the middle of the night. I guess I don’t really care enough any more, plus I’m just too damn tired.
Every night as I try to find some peace in my dreams I remember that next night. The night we had little warning that they were coming for us. Dad came into my bedroom in a panic. He shook me awake and shouted at me to get up. I knew they had found us. As I swung my legs to the floor, dad was zipping up our open suitcases. I was pulling up my jeans when the men broke in. They came for dad but also found me, his innocent twelve year-old daughter. An added bonus for the four guys that kicked in the motel room door.
There was so much yelling that I couldn’t distinguish much that was said, but I did hear something about dad owing someone money and he’d be sure to pay. Three of the men took dad outside, while one stayed with me in the room. I’ll never forget the feeling of his fists in my hair as he yanked me around the room. I was hit, kicked, punched. I don’t really remember any of this though. The nurses at the hospital told me about the injuries once I became conscious.
What I do remember is when the knife sliced my skin. The man looked me right in the eyes as he told me how he was going to cut open my throat and watch me bleed. I remember the look of lust and need in his eyes. This man enjoyed hurting me, in fact I don’t think he would have physically been able to leave without causing blood to spill.
Very methodically he made a small slice on my arm; seemed just to want to see how deep his blade would cut with just a small amount of pressure. Once satisfied with the cut, he kissed my forehead and slowly made a slice across my throat. That’s when I lost myself. Right there. I was no longer me. That is how I became a monster.
I sit and watch the blood run down his arm. It isn’t my job to wipe it away, not yet anyway. Today I just get to watch Jonathan use his rag to remove the ink-stained liquid. I am a witness to all of this and can’t participate in making him bleed. The fact that I am not the one causing the pain is truly killing me. I want my hands on him. I want to be the one holding the needle etching into his skin, spilling pain and blood. It will be my turn soon, but not until I turn 18. Damn laws.
For now all I can do is dream of the blood I will spill. The pain I will cause.