The laceration above her eye seems to hurt her worse than the swelling beneath it. Small trails of blood line her face, the wetness of it sticking to my skin like glue. Every new discovery I make causes my skin to prickle with indescribable anger, but I know the possibility of finding more injuries is more probable than not. Daring myself to continue, I run my index finger down the tip of her nose with as much tenderness as I can muster.
It doesn't take me long to realise what's wrong. It's hot. It's huge. It's swollen. It's fucking broken.
“He's a good man,” she whimpers quickly in his defence.
The rage building inside of me instantly makes me feel nauseous. He's hurt her a thousand times, much worse than this, but something about tonight is sending me out of control. My jaw locks tight as her timid body trembles beside me. It's the same thing she says every time. Every fucking time he lays his fist upon her, she defends him with the same, well-rehearsed statement.
“A good man wouldn’t hurt his wife this way.”
“All good men make mistakes.”
“He's a bastard,” I growl.
“Isabella…”
“You don’t deserve this.”
Her head shakes slowly from side to side as her gaze falls back to the ceiling. I know she is blocking me out now. I know her love for him reigns supreme above all else, but god help me, this is my mother; the woman who brought me in to this world. The woman who raised me, fed me, clothed me, nurtured me, and I can't sit back and watch this happen anymore.
Piling and plumping the pillows up behind my back, I shuffle up to a sitting position, open my arm and gently pull on her shoulder, guiding her down until her head lands in the crook of my arm. As soon as she falls against my chest, she wraps herself around my waist and digs her fingers into my skin, holding on to the warmth of my fifteen year old body for dear life.
“You're still beautiful,” I whisper as I stroke her long, dark hair back over her shoulders.
“Go to sleep,” she orders me weakly, the croak in her throat telling me she is already hating herself for coming in here like this.
“Tell me you know you're still beautiful.”
Her hand grips my waist tighter as she slowly shuffles down in an attempt to make her aching body more comfortable.
“You have a test today. You should sleep.”
“My test is next week, Mum,” I lie, “and it’s not important.”
My head falls back against the headboard in defeat. There's no talking to her when she gets like this. She refuses to see him as anything other than perfect, while all I ever see is evil. All I ever feel is hate. All I ever want is him gone.
Blowing out a heavy breath, my fingers still streaming through the length of her hair to soothe her, I roll my head from side to side and stare out into the darkness.
Time passes by without much thought. I'm not sure how long we lay here for, neither one of us awake or asleep, but floating around somewhere in between, dipping in and out of both states of being. At some point throughout the night, as the depths of darkness start to become diluted by the rising sun, my hand eventually falls to the bed as I hear her breathing begin to slow, her tiredness winning out above all else, her mind settling for a few hours, drifting away from the fear and the tears she has, once again, had to endure.
I don't sleep at all. My tiredness is rattling its paws against the iron cage I've locked it in. My mind refuses to settle the way hers has as the voices of anger begin to plot and scheme against my father. When the sun eventually rises completely, and my mother peels her half broken body away from mine to go back to her own bed and pretend like nothing has happened, I know my life is about to change forever.
Because today, I have a new plan in mind and I know that no matter what happens over the next few hours, one thing, in this crazy world of uncertainties, is an absolute given. I know that the next time I go to lay my head against a pillow and sleep, I am probably going to be nursing my own wounds and my body is going to hurt like hell.
Two
Later that day
I'm running again.
I’m always running.
My small feet pound against the dark concrete of the street, the rain that's coating it causing me to go slower than I normally would. The ever-expanding puddles are everywhere; I can't seem to escape them. This is the worst downpour we’ve had in ten years and I am the only person this side of Manchester who is dumb enough to be out in it.
Dumb enough… or just desperate.
As it relentlessly batters down against my long hair and my clothes, my mouth hangs open, gasping for oxygen through the water that rains down on my face like a never ending waterfall. I'm trying so hard not to close my one good eye, but the winds have picked up so much I can barely see as the elements battle against me. It feels like everything is fighting to stop me at the moment; everything and everyone.
I eventually make it to the fence surrounding the field that separates my street from Paris’, but all I can do is stop dead in my tracks and glare at it as though it’s Mount Everest itself. Normally, I would fly over the thing with no effort at all - just lean down and flip my whole body to the other side in one swift, fluid motion. But I can't do that tonight. I know the only thing numbing the agony in my ribs is the adrenaline pumping through my body. I know that one false move or act of stupidity and I’ll be doubled over in so much pain, I won't be able to move. I'll freeze into a block of ice and be found by some random, Trespass wearing dog walker, in the morning.
Even I'm not desperate enough to want to go out that way. I’ve been humiliated enough.
Clutching my right side with my left hand, I crouch down in the mud, cringing as it immediately soaks through my jeans and clings to my skin.
Moving as slowly as I can, I tense my jaw and let out a groan as my teeth grind together in a bid to ignore the pain. Then I lay flat on my back with my knees raised whilst I take a deep breath and try not to think about the shame that’s trying to force me to quit.
I’ve seen people do it on the television before, the sideways bum shuffle. But they always make it look so much easier and a lot less degrading than this. With no other options available to me, my back begins to army crawl as gently as it can under the small gap between the lowest wooden plank and the ground. The rain continues to beat down on my face, each droplet on my swollen cheek and eye feeling like a bomb exploding on my injuries. I'm desperately trying to hold back the hot tears that hide behind my eyelids. I'm trying so hard not to let him win. But I'm fifteen years old. Last night my father beat my mother so badly she had to sneak to the hospital today to have her eye drained. Less than thirty minutes ago, he beat me in a similar way, too.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts as he storms into the garage.
Jumping out of my skin, my eyes widen with fear as I drop the papers to the floor and start to step backwards. “N-N-Nothing.”
His face turns meaner, his eyes glazing over as the red mist sets in. “You going through my stuff, Bella?”
“No, Dad.” My feet kept moving without instruction as I try to keep a safe distance from him. I hate it when he calls me Bella. I really, really hate it.
“Are you lying to your father?”
“No,” I breathe.
His carefully timed footsteps move closer, his chest expanding as he tries to make himself look meaner, more threatening. I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to do that. I'm scared of him even when he sleeps.
I watch as he bends down to retrieve the papers I’ve just dropped, his eyes scanning over them as his brow creases further together. He turns to look at me, scrunching them tight in his hand as he holds them up in the air.
“Now, tell me what my precious little girl would want with these?”
I want to scream in his face that I'm not his little girl and never have been. I want to tell him that what I was actually doing was searching for something to use against him, some proof that he’s a crook and a thief, something concrete
that I can take to the police as evidence in the hope that it will get him away from my mother again. He’s not been out of prison long this time. I know there must be something here. I just know it.
“I asked you a question. You’d better hurry up and give your old man a decent answer.”
He doesn't miss my sneer, even though I try to hide it. I see the way his mouth sets firmly and the fire that suddenly begins to burn behind his eyes. I’ve just disrespected him. Terry Moffit doesn't like disrespect. He doesn't like anything that implies he is anything other than perfect.
My body reacts instinctively, my stance turning stronger as I raise my chin in silent defiance and try to prepare myself for the hit. No matter how many times I try to stand tall and be as fearless as I need to be, I always end up cowering on the floor in a broken heap.
Snapping out of the recent memory, I open my eyes and realise I’ve made it to the other side of the fence. All I can think about is being that little bit closer to my safe haven: Paris. She’s the one thing that always gets me through all this. Crawling upwards, still gripping my ribs in one hand, I hold in the pain and rise to a shaky stand. Sharp jolts of agony seem to stretch throughout me, spreading like vicious venom as I begin to move, my feet eventually finding a steady pace and jogging in a slanted motion across the overgrown blades of grass.
It seems to take me a lifetime to reach her house and when I eventually make it, I'm drenched to the core. My clothes feel like they have bricks sewn inside them. My skin itches like it is laced with rabid lice. I'm surviving on a rush - nothing else. I’ve not got a particularly high pain threshold. I'm not even being brave. I'm just being, and only those who have experienced that, will ever truly know how it feels. I'm on life's autopilot setting. Survival is my only goal.
Her house is lit up like a Christmas tree; every warm light inside burns bright and casts a pretty orange glow against the lawn. It looks so inviting, so different to mine. I envy her for that.
Pushing forward on the gate to their garden, the sound of the rusty hinge squeaking in the air, I limp weakly to her back door. With every step I take towards the house, my injuries ache more, causing me to hiss as the pain grows and grows and grows. I manage to cast a quick glance up to her bedroom window, aware of the fact that that is my usual way in. Paris calls me Spiderman because of the way I fly up the drainpipe that has a direct route to her room. If I break my usual routine now, what will they think? How much will they worry?
Mr. Hemsworth’s shadow appears in the doorway before he does, his large black outline dancing around, back and forth in front of the glass panel. The muffled sounds of family laughter fill the air, Paris’ squeals and giggles ringing out to me like a songbird. I can't help but smile weakly at that noise. She has a laugh like nobody else’s, one that never fails to light up my life, and I can’t help but wonder who, or what, has brought that to life in her tonight. My curiosity gets the better of me and before I know what I am doing, my feet are perched on the top step and my bruised, aching body is stretching to peer inside their kitchen window as I cling to the ledge.
Mrs Hemsworth is sat at the dining table, her smile wide as she watches her husband and daughter dance around in front of her.
“No, Paris,” Mr. Hemsworth scolds, playfully. “Quick, quick, slow, quick, quick, slow, heel, spin.”
“Daaaaad,” she groans, as her shoulders sag in defeat.
Dan Hemsworth straightens his back, holding her hand in the air and lifting his chin. “My daughter will be the finest dancer in the whole of this land.” He smiles, looking down on her. “She has the looks of a princess, the style of a queen, the air of a ruler, the charm of a temptress and the name of a lady… but she has the grace and feet of a wonky donkey.”
Paris rolls her eyes in his direction, quickly peeking over at her mum as she points back at him. “Seriously, of all the men you had to choose from, you gave me Fred Astaire mixed with Walt Disney for a father.”
Lily Hemsworth quickly jumps to her feet, shakes out her skirt and snuggles up to her husband. “Want me to defend you, fine Sir?”
Spinning his wife around, he drops her into a movie style dip and grumbles. “Let us not defend when we can attack. Prepare for thy daughter’s squirming.” And then he’s down on her in a second, his lips crashing against his wife's as Paris squeals in protest and disgust before turning on her heels and leaving the room in a huff.
I can't help laughing, but it isn’t long before I realise it's a huge mistake as a surge of pain lashes along my face and down in to my chest. My hand slips from the window ledge causing me to stumble. Shit! That’s all I can curse to myself as my foot slides against the soaking wet stone beneath my feet and I fall hard, crashing into several of Mrs Hemsworth’s pot plants.
Shit! I cringe again, eventually finding my footing and freezing in place, hoping with all my might that none of them have heard me. The familiar feelings of pain shoot through my ribs and the seconds seemed to take forever to pass while I wait to see if my cover has been blown.
I hear the key turn in the back door as it slowly creaks open and I see him standing there. Mr. Hemsworth, my second father, gifted to me by God himself. I don't look up from my place beneath him. I don't raise my chin from my chest to let him see why I am here. He already knows.
His heavy sigh rolls out through the cold air. Knowing how guilty he feels for not being able to save me, I should feel bad for being here, but, just like my mother needs me when she has been hit, I need the Hemsworths now.
The soles of his smart shoes clomp against the steps until he is down on my level. The feel of his warm, familiar palm on my cold, shaking shoulder makes my body flinch without meaning to.
“Isabella?”
I don't look up from the ground as he speaks.
“You’re frozen,” he says calmly.
“Yes, Mr Hemsworth.”
“Dan,” he corrects me.
I nod weakly. Words are failing me right now.
“Would you like to come inside?”
My head shakes in protest even though it's all I really want. “N-No, Sir. I mean Mr. Hemsworth. I mean Dan. I-I-I’m okay.”
Dropping his knees into a crouch, he slowly raises my chin with one finger and looks at the damage that my father has done. It's impossible to miss the tensing of his body and the sharp inhale of breath he sucks in through his teeth, even if he is trying his best to hide it.
“I fell,” I lie without even thinking, my one good eye avoiding his at all costs.
“You must have taken quite a tumble.”
“It was nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because you’re fine…”
“I...”
His sad smile makes my heart clench. Dan knows the score with my father. He knows the only thing I fell into was his fist. The silence that hangs in the air hurts more than anything. My pride is bruised, and that's the one thing that can't be fixed with plasters and lotions.
“Please don’t call the police. My mum would never forgive me,” I plead quietly.
Sliding his arm around my shoulder, he pulls my body closer to his, the slight tremor of his voice causing the held back tears in my eyes to burn.
“Come on, beautiful girl. Let’s get you inside. We have a warm bath, some clean clothes and a nice piece of chocolate cake waiting in here, just for you.”
My instincts scream at me to run, to not darken this lovely family’s doorstep with my world. But this is Mr. Hemsworth. He has the warmth and the spirit of a saint. Resistance is futile, especially when all I crave in this exact moment is to be loved.
“Do you have any ice cream?” I ask, hopeful.
“Four flavours. And toppings.” He grins as he turns to guide me up the stairs, holding me against him to take the weight off my every step.
“Sounds delicious, Mr. Hemsworth.”
“Dan,” he reminds me. “Or Dandy… I
like that name you gave me. You have a wonderful imagination. You shouldn’t hide it.”
Despite the pain down one side of my face, I can't help but smile at the compliment as he walks us both inside, where I’m greeted with the all too familiar warmth of my second home.
“Thank you, Dandy,” I turn to him before carefully crossing the threshold, “For everything.”
Three
4th October, 1998
“Will you sit down?”
“Go get laid,” Paris snorts, wafting her long, brown hair over her shoulder.
“Nice,” I whisper, dropping my head to hide my blush. I'm laying on one of the fluffy beanbags her dad left here after he built this tree house for us. I’m sure it wasn't a coincidence that he gifted this to us both not long after the incident with my father last year.
Since then, it has been where Paris and I spend most of our time. This is our place. Mr. Hemsworth surprised us with this treat and made it sound like a joint gift for the two of us. But, rightly or wrongly, I knew all along that it was really for me. He'd slipped up in his excitement, his eyes wide with happiness as he'd watched us jump around inside it, both of us completely euphoric and overwhelmed with this little hidden oasis, tucked away in the woods near both our homes. Dan's eyes had fallen on mine sympathetically. The words 'consider this your escape,' leaving his mouth before he even realised what it was he was saying.
I didn’t respond out loud. My tight smile of appreciation told him enough. I loved it. I really loved it. I loved him, too.
But right now, as we sit in the middle of this insanely important wooden room, I squirm in annoyance as his daughter drives me nothing short of crazy. Her dulcet ramblings ring out as she continues to talk about the night she lost her virginity, over and over again.
“I mean,” she shrugs, “all those years I worried about how much it would hurt were so wasted… completely wasted.”
My hands twist together in my lap. I still can't believe she's finally done it. I can't believe she has moved on to the next phase of adulthood, way before I'm able to even think about it without blushing.
Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1) Page 2