Fiction: "Upon Awakening"

I MUST SAY... this was my very first fictional story which I submitted for my Philosophy of Literature class at Texas A&M. I was tasked with writing a short story that intertwined themes of philosophy we discussed in class and after calling my own DAD of all people for ideas, he presented me with this twisted would-you-rather predicament and I decided to run with it. Luckily, I had been reading some Toni Morrison, a novelist who writes incredibly deep, graphic, and tragic stories, so that helped me whip up this tale and all of its haunt. I must say, when I presented it to the class, the students were enthralled with the story, my professor not so much. He let me know mid-presentation that it TOTALLY disobeyed the prompt and gave us nothing on that front, but was written beautifully and incredibly, stating it was obvious that I am very well-read (put that compliment on my grave). Funny enough, when it came time for letters of recommendation for NYU and Columbia, I emailed him and asked HIM for a last-minute letter because though he didn't like me and dissed my essay, I knew he could attest to my writing abilities and that is exactly what I needed: no risk, no reward, why not. Ironically, the other day I got to read that letter for the first time and I was absolutely and completely blown away. He wrote the very best letter of recommendation one could truly receive, THE MOST complimentary and comprehensive report on me as a thinker and a writer. If you're reading this Dr. Jaima, ily, I'm done emailing you now!!

Nevertheless, here is a wildly morbid story I COMPLETELY MADE UP!

(you should've seen my classmates' faces right before I presented, they were all so concerned for me because they read it prior bahahaha I had to preface with "im ok guys")

Trigger warning: there is sexual assault insinuated and violence :)

Upon Awakening

There was nothing like waking up on a bright March day. The sun lit up my bedroom, shining through the window panes and sheer curtains, illuminating my dresser covered in last night’s memories. I wrestled around, attempting to avoid the sunlight in my eyes, but quickly rendered it pointless and succumbed to the morning. That was the great thing about having a bright bedroom, the sun wakes you up at a decent hour. I knew that once my eyes were open I couldn't fall back asleep, so I arose for the day. I now know I shouldn’t complain, but truthfully, I’ve never been a morning person. I scuffled around my room looking at the disaster I had left behind the night before. Between the curling iron left burning, makeup palettes askew, and my candle lit. My room was a hazard, a death wish even.

I rummaged through the closet to select my prized sweatshirt to cloak myself in. The hoodie was approximately three sizes too large, swallowing me up as I wore it. I like being hidden when I move about the house, for I found it less miserable when I drifted rather than participated. At last, I slipped on my honorary hoodie, grabbed a pair of sweatpants, and glided down the stairs into the kitchen. I was immediately blinded by the sun from the kitchen windows, so I worked my way into the room with my eyes clenched shut. I thought to myself how hangovers are the worst and I just hoped I was home alone. I nauseatingly sat down at my designated kitchen stool, and immediately put my head on the kitchen counter before me. The cold granite felt like bliss on my forehead, but my headache worsened as I lowered my head. Right then, I realized I had missed the pivotal key to days like these: ibuprofen. I marched to the cabinet ready to grab two pills, but arrived to see not a single bottle. With the pain relievers missing and my headache worsening, I decided my next best bet would be to drink some water, so I whipped out a glass and poured a cup from the sink. The water wasn’t the highest quality, but getting it from the tap was an experience. With my eyes adjusted, I could see the magnolia tree and shrubbery my mom planted before she passed. That was another good thing about having a bright bedroom: it wakes you up early for these little moments.

As I dragged myself back to the kitchen counter, I noticed the silence in the house which was not deafening, but comforting. I have learned to take great solace in the quiet moments of life, especially at home. To purposefully bask in happy times adds a deep appreciation to the imperfect perfection of a moment in time, a homogenous concoction of perfect timing and circumstances. Much like meditation, I find comfort in the happy and peaceful moments, such as the house when it was empty. I have always found comfort in the sun, therefore, I prefer getting my water from the tap.

Since it was an early Sunday morning, I was safe to live as I pleased for a few hours before my Dad returned home from church. With the house to myself, I decided to throw myself upon the couch strung about for about forty-five minutes to cure my hangover. Resting was nice, but not as gratifying as the shower that ensued. After a night out drinking, you just want to wash your face, you know?

Right as I stepped out of my shower I could hear something rustling about downstairs. I quickly trotted to my bedroom door, tracking water on the carpet, and pressed my ear against the two inches of wood separating my room from the world. The house was silent, what a massive relief. I chalked it up to just coincidence and continued to dry off in the bathroom. As I was applying my moisturizer, I heard another noise radiate from downstairs, sending chills down my spine and throughout every centimeter of my body. Who could be downstairs? Back at the door, I listened for further evidence of an intruder and my heart started to race. I was faced with a crossroad: do I hide out in my room, or investigate these noises further? Torn and reluctant, I decided I should rub in my face cream, slide back on my hoodie, and check the house.

 I decided that if I was bold enough to go downstairs, I ought to take something with me to protect myself. Once mentally and physically prepared, I slid my hand on the doorknob and slowly exited my room. As I crept down the stairs, I was quickly halted. Somebody was in the house. My mind began to race and burn with fear, imagining what monstrous stranger could be lurking in the corners of my home. I begin to sweat all over. My mind started jumping to the worst conclusions as to who could be downstairs: a thief, an abuser, a terrible man. It was when I heard a piercing yet familiar laugh that I dropped to my knees.

My worst fears were correct.

Dad’s back.

I melted into the staircase and broke out into tears. This was the worst-case scenario: my thief, abuser, and personal nightmare had arrived home. I immediately chastised myself for overzealously marching out of my room without any thought, for I would have stayed hidden had I known he was home. Instead, I found myself planted right into the hands of the man who had abused me for years. How could I have been so stupid?

“What is all this hollerin’ about? Hadn’t I told you to quit drinking so much? You’re seventeen. You’re an adult!” my father belted in my face.

“Yes sir, you told me to quit drinking, but what about your drinki-“

“Shut your mouth young lady, and respect me, dammit. You know what happens when you run your mouth, don’t you.” he inquired with a displaced grin.

I knew exactly what happened when I ran my mouth, or perhaps when I do anything whatsoever. I would be assaulted and degraded in ways unimaginable, all due to my inability to fill his empty heart. This sounds bleak, but nothing filled his heart, so he filled it with whiskey instead. Like a lone cowboy, he attended the dicey bars to sip cocktails alone and take shots when nobody was looking. When an alcoholic cannot admit that they are powerless over alcohol, they must get their power elsewhere: people. By abusing me, degrading me, and screaming at me, my Dad single-handedly ruined my world and stripped it of its stars. So yes, I knew what happened when I ran my mouth.

“Yes sir.” I said sheepishly.

“Then get the hell up”.

He loomed above me for a minute, sending his vodka-infused breathes upon my shaking body. He usually didn’t smell of alcohol this early in the day, much less from this far away. Before he walked away, he shot me an intense stare, that never-ending stare. It was a petrifying gaze that reeked of all the worst things: power, drunkenness, and lust. As he gazed down upon me, a fragile sobbing mess on the stairs, I knew what he was thinking. “She is her most attractive right now, laid about in hysterics and completely at my mercy. I can’t wait”.

 I knew he was loving this moment, but he was too busy to fully express it, for his liquor was awaiting consumption. He finally turned away, approached the kitchen counter, and began to unpack a bag of liquor bottles from an old duffel bag. He bought more this time. The bottles clinked as they met the countertop, with his shaky and desperate hands barely gripping them. After he unloaded the liquor, he crushed the bag in which it came. Why must he crush everything around him? That, I still don’t know.

I ran upstairs without saying a word and locked my door. I thought about Mom, and how since her passing four years back, Dad has never been the same. While she took to chemotherapy, he took to the bottle, and all at once - both of my parents died.

My father was not the kind of person to crush everything around him, that is what the alcohol did. I had only known my father to be a caretaker and hopeless romantic, with him devoting all of his life and love to my Mom from the second they married, up until she passed. I remember my mom cooking in the kitchen, bragging about how finding a man like my father is few and far between and I would be lucky to marry a man like him. I have since learned to hate those memories. When she passed, his days went from changing bedpans and checking oxygen tanks to drinking the pain away. My father spoke of working to fill his time, but you cannot be drunk on the job.

He steadily increased his drinking over the past four years, with him clearing five bottles of varying liquor a day. The drinking began the second he woke up, typically with a bottle of chardonnay and a nice morning stretch. When he finished that bottle but was still sober enough to remember the loss of his wife, he was catapulted into more liquor to erase her. The second she escaped his mind, I entered it, and always in a negative fashion.

This is the part where I wished I was with Mom, for he would incoherently reprimand me over nonexistent issues until he was angry enough to beat, scold, and defile me for his pleasure. Ensuring his own satisfaction is his only job these days, and he pursued it incessantly and at my expense. The verbal degrading arose first, always while he was enjoying his second bottle. As the corks multiplied, so did his audacity, with furniture-throwing coming during bottle three, right when his tongue was too swollen to articulate his vicious words. Hands came shortly after, with him planting his fists into me repeatedly until I bled. He made me bleed however he could and wanted, leaving me feeling humiliated, violated, and utterly ruined.

While I hid upstairs in my bedroom, the drinking ensued below. Hours passed, but I was petrified to step foot downstairs as it always ended in disaster. In moments like these, you never knew when his anger would grow too unmanageable and he would lose control. It wasn’t until I was summoned that I walked downstairs that afternoon, and when I heard him yell for me, he didn’t even sound human. As I fearfully descended the stairs, he met me at the bottom.

The stare began early this time.

There was an absence in his eyes, his glossy, drunken eyes. Never have I seen such vacancy in my Dad’s eyes, and I feared what was to come. I knew there was nothing I could do to save myself. I crossed him earlier with my attitude and now he is out for revenge. As always, I was desperately trying to think of a way to escape, but to no avail. At that moment, my fate was sealed with one single swing, and all I saw was perpetual black. Waking up in my bedroom is typically a calming experience, but it isn’t when you are awoken by a door slamming in the distance. I sat recovering for a minute, trying my hardest to regain my eyesight when I felt the arrival of an embedded pulse within my right cheek. I noticed the pulse left my face and rippled throughout my whole body, extending to my thighs, accompanied by a heat and tenderness. I knew what just happened.

Pain reliever was the first thing on my mind, making me focus even harder on regaining my vision. I began visually to make out the furniture in my room, with the details becoming gradually clearer. When I steadied myself upon my feet, I began my trek to the medicine cabinet. I crept to the door, cracking it to ensure I was alone, and stood at the top of the stairs, dreading the jaunt down. As I staggered down the stairs, I tried to regain my bearings of what had just transpired, all the while trying to forget the atrocities my body experienced. After arriving at the foot of the staircase, I stumbled to my left and headed to the kitchen for ibuprofen. As I entered the kitchen, I saw the trees rustling about in the backyard, transporting me back to my relaxing afternoons, escaping life under Mom’s Magnolia. I continued my mission to the cabinet, only to be gravely disappointed by the lack of medicine in it. I must’ve forgotten to buy more last night when I ran out again. Why is this the story of my life?

Disenchanted and deflated, I bent my knees to sit down at the counter, only to be greeted with an empty space where my stool previously resided. Defeated, I hunched over the counter and awkwardly placed my cheek on it. God how the cold granite felt like bliss on a fresh bruise. With the grogginess lifting slowly and the memories of my horrifying afternoon rushing back, it all became too much and I needed a breath of fresh air.

I lurched my way to the backdoor and rotated the handle. By placing all my weight on the door, I flung myself outside and onto the grass. As I laid there, I listened to the grass whisper its steady rhythm throughout the yard while I was calmed by the cool breeze of the night. As I scanned the yard, my peripheral vision picked up something: my missing stool. How did it even get there? Back on my feet, I began to walk toward the chair until my sight was diverted to a soft swinging motion lingering by the tree. I start to sweat all over.

As I crept closer to the tree, I figured I ought to have a weapon, but it was too late for that. My heart began racing, imagining that my worst fear could be hanging before me, which turned out to be true.

It’s Dad.

 As he hung from the sturdiest branch of Mom’s magnolia tree, his body wiggled and flinched with zero signs of rigor mortis. He was definitely alive. As I approached him, I was once again, underneath his demeaning, evil gaze. I found myself at a crossroads: do I save him or walk away? He is my father, but how thick is blood when you’re constantly bled dry?

If you made it all the way here, its only right to leave your mark.

Comment down below and I'll cry happy tears!!