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I pull my mom’s rusty old beater to a stop outside our trailer and groan. Even with the engine still running, I can hear my mom and stepdad, Preston, yelling from inside. I can’t even turn on the radio to drown them out until they’re done. That old thing died years ago. Also, there’s no sense in buying a new radio when it’d probably be stolen within a week, since I can’t even lock the car doors anymore. The thing has more rust on it than metal these days. Besides, I have better uses for my money.
Louder yelling draws my gaze back to our trailer. Knowing them, they’re arguing about money, drugs, booze, food, or me. And it’s usually in that order. A glance at the clock shows it’s just before midnight. If they keep up their yelling, the neighbors are going to call the cops.
Again.
With a grunt, I heave the car door open, grab my backpack, and carefully shut the door. It’s not that I’m trying to be quiet. It’s worrying that one of these days, the rusty old hinge is going to break and then I won’t have a usable driver side door. If that happens, the door will have to be secured permanently in place. Which means I’d have to pull aDukes of Hazzardstunt to get in or crawl over the console and use the passenger door.
Slipping the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, I try to ignore the rundown state of our home, but it’s hard, and I can’t help but pause as I take in what used to be a nice home for Mom and me.
Preston’s oldest piece of junk car rests on blocks under a tree that’s half dead. He says he’s going to restore it someday, but it’s really not worth it. That car has more rust on it than Mom’s car does. His other car, an old Bronco that barely runs, is parked in front of it.
A shed sits at the back of our property and I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed in on itself since almost all the boards are rotten. The grass is almost knee high again, but I always save that chore for when I know Preston will be gone at work. Unfortunately, he’s barely left the trailer the last couple of months, so I don’t even know if he has a job anymore. If I were to mow the yard tomorrow when he’s home, I’d probably earn a beating for causing a ruckus and interrupting his TV shows.
Our trailer is covered in so much grime and dirt that you can barely tell the siding used to be white and the shutters blue. My chest tightens when my gaze roams over the spots near the siding trim where Mom and I used to paint our handprints every year on my birthday. They’re no longer visible, but I know they’re still there under all that dirt.
That tradition unfortunately stopped when Preston saw us painting our hands on my tenth birthday. We had just placed that year’s handprints when he asked Mom why she was allowing me to continue such a childish act. Then he demanded that we paint over all of them so it wouldn’t be an eyesore. That’s one of the few things I remember her fighting back on and actually winning. While we couldn’t do anymore handprints, a compromise she said, those ten sets remained untouched. Well, at least until they started getting covered by the dirt and grime.
When Mom first introduced Preston to me shortly after my eighth birthday, I had doubts, especially because of what she’d previously told me about him. I think I was six when she first told me about when she and Preston were married before I was born. That he had convinced her that my father, who was in a motorcycle club, was cheating on her with every skirt that walked into the club. That being with him instead of her boyfriend would provide a stable environment for me.
It wasn’t until after I was born that she realized he’d tricked her, but it was too late. She was already married to Preston when she found out that my dad had never cheated on her. In fact, it was Preston who’d been cheating on her all along. I’m not sure if that’s the reason why they annulled their marriage a month later or not. Whenever I asked, Mom would never tell me the reason when I asked.
So when she said they had started dating again, I was worried that he’d try and trick her again. Whenever I’d talk to her about it, she said that he seems to have changed and matured since they were together last.
Still, I could tell she was cautious around him. At least whenever he was around me, that is. However, I’m guessing either she still loved him or thought she wouldn’t do any better than him, because they were married again, not even a year after they started dating.
The first couple of years after they got married were rocky before it all went to heck in a handbasket. I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back, his nagging and nitpicking every little thing Mom did eventually broke her down, making her a shell of her former self.
It was then, when she’d hit that low point, that his physical abuse started. And it’s only gotten worse throughout the years.
With a sigh, I push those memories back and carefully make my way up our rickety stairs, trying to avoid the worst of the rotten spots. My hand pauses on the door handle when I hear Preston talking again.
“When she’s eighteen, she’s gone, Lillian. That’ll settle everything and then we won’t have to worry about things for a while.”
What is he talking about? What does he mean I’ll be gone?
“You can’t, Preston! She’s my baby. Please! There has to be another way.”
A loud smack rings through the air, followed by the sound of something heavy falling.
Crap.
It sounds like Preston hasn’t kept Mom pumped full of drugs like he usually does.
Another cry from my mom has me shaking off my thoughts, and I turn, quietly walking back down the steps. Since it isn’t used as often, I head to the rear passenger door, open it, and then slam it shut. Instantly, the yelling stops and I walk back up the steps, making sure they creak and groan with each step.
Opening the trailer door, my gaze instantly latches on Preston, who’s sitting on our beat-up couch watching TV and drinking a beer. No surprise there. A quick glance around the living room and tiny kitchen shows only him and the dilapidated state of our once nice trailer. Everything is practically falling apart, held together with duct tape and bungee cords. Since Mom’s nowhere to be found, she must be hiding in their bedroom. I’m sure she’ll be sporting another bruise tomorrow that her makeup won’t be able to hide.
Shutting the front door, I flip the flimsy lock. Not that it’ll stop anyone from trying to get in. That thing is so weak it would break as soon as someone tugs hard enough on it. Keeping my head down, I let my long, blonde hair fall so that it hides him from my view as I cross the dingy living room, hoping I’ll be able to escape to my bedroom without him taking notice of me. I hear couch springs squeak as he shifts before he grunts. Crap.
“You’ve got a birthday coming up, don’t you? Eighteen, is it?” Preston asks.
I stop in my tracks, fear crawling through me. I learned long ago that if I didn’t answer him or at least act like I was paying attention when he spoke, his beatings would be worse than usual.
“Y-yes. In a few days.” Please let me just go to my room.
He grunts again and goes back to watching his show. Thank you, universe!
Releasing an internal sigh of relief that I got off easier than usual, I head toward the hallway trying not to rush too much. Rushing would only result in another beating, as he’d see it as me disrespecting him.
