Serving The Sword

It hurt.

It hurt a lot.

Sarah struggled with the tube of aloe. She had already squeezed the tube dry, but she needed more. It was the only thing that would stop the burning.

“Fuck.” She swore, tossing the abused tube across the room. This sudden action caused her to hiss in pain as the wound on her back broke open once more. Tiny drops of liquid rolled down her back and she knew from experience that it was not sweat, but blood.

She got up slowly, mindful of the sleeping form in bed and headed for the bathroom. She searched the cabinet in hopes of finding that small brown bottle. It didn’t help the burning, but it helped the healing process. She scanned through the items: Tylenol (never worked), Lexapro (she’d given it up years ago), Ex-lax (don’t bother asking), Roid-a-way (he had never really gotten rid of that problem), and boxes upon boxes of anti-diarrhea (I swear, the man’s addicted.).

She stopped looking, perplexed, when she noticed the empty bottle in the trash, nearly hidden under all the syringes the old bastard had been using. Not the most discreet of individuals, but who the hell would look in this rundown old place anyhow?

She collapsed on the toilet and grabbed some toilet paper, twisting her arms uncomfortably behind her in hopes of swabbing most of the blood. She tried concentrating on anything, but the pain. She got up quickly and caught her reflection in the mirror. She had become more and more surprised and disgusted by the individual staring back at her. No amount of convincing could ever prove that it was really her. Not anymore.

She cringed at this sudden unwanted memory as she stared into her blue-green eyes. She had been told that quite a lot when she was younger. She wondered if it was supposed to fill her with pride instead of disgust.

Bile rose in her throat and she barely reached the toilet before she vomited. She continued until dry heaves shook her body and she tasted the acidic, sour taste in her mouth. The same acrid taste of her father.

Sarah rested her head on the cool toilet seat and contemplated what it meant to be a ‘good girl’. What it meant to her father.

She had been seven the first time. She had been cowering under her blankets as her parents fought. Words she knew she shouldn’t understand at her age, but did, were creeping through the thin walls to her room. Objects were being thrown and each time they broke, it reverberated through-out the house, causing her to shiver.

This night had become more violent than usual. This became even more obvious when the door slammed, signifying her mother leaving. Panic filled her as she ran out of the room.

“Mommy?!” She screamed, already sobbing.

“Sarie?”

She heard the slurred sound of her nickname before she smelled it. The horrible stench that she had known from an early age to be alcohol. She turned around to see her father sitting in his favorite armchair in the living room. His eyes were red and he smelled of sweat and beer, but his face was quirked into an odd smile meaning to comfort Sarah, but only causing her to back away.

“C’mere, sweetie! Come ta Daddy.” He slurred, holding out his arms to pull her closer.

Sarah was afraid to go near her father when he was like this, but knew better than to disobey him. She allowed him to pull her into his lap.

Resisting the urge to plug her nose, she asked: “Daddy, where’s Mommy?”

“Aww, sweetie.” He said, stroking his sweaty palm through her hair. “Mommy jus’ went to the store. She’ll be back soon.” He pulled her closer to his chest as he said this, still stroking her hair.

The smell was even worse as she was pulled closer, but she ignored it and allowed herself to be rocked. The constant rocking would have been enough to put her to sleep if it weren’t for the hardness poking her uncomfortably in the leg.

A/N: This is what I write on a good day. I will finish it someday so tell me whatcha think.