Running The Miles (excerpt) | Teen Ink

Running The Miles (excerpt)

March 3, 2010
By emjay1216 SILVER, Eugene, Oregon
emjay1216 SILVER, Eugene, Oregon
6 articles 3 photos 29 comments

Favorite Quote:
Often times, the test of courage is not to die, but to live.
~ Vittorio Alfieri

"Ok, Mom, seriously, I’m....Mom?"
My mother was lying in a pool of blood on the cold tile floor in the kitchen. Her brown hair and Monaco Coach work shirt were caked with blood. Her mouth was open wide, a perfect oval, blood plastered to the sides, the last of it dribbling from her mouth. The knife, was sticking out of the underside of her thigh, well actually, all you could see was the handle, black. I could only stand there and watch. My Converse stuck to the bloody floor. I stood there and watched.

I'm Jay, and my goal in life is to be on Broadway. I'm 16, tall, with brown hair like my mother and blue eyes like my father. I live in this little suburb outside of LA. I'm on the track team, in theatre, on the debate team, the honor society...the Random Acts of Kindness club, I have a five point four GPA, and I'm going on foreign exchange in Spain next year. I’m the worlds most ideal teen. Oh yeah, my parents well, my Dad's a womanizer, and my Mom was murdered three days before her 36th birthday.
I knew all of this was going to happen sometime. You see, it all started like this:

It was three months ago exactly. We were sitting down to dinner without my father for the third time that week. My mom was trying hard not to show her worry, though she was ringing the edge of the tablecloth so tightly, her knuckles were white.
“Mom,” I cleared my throat, then began again, “Maybe he had to close up again, he should be here soon.”
“Yes,” she said to her steak and mashed potatoes, ‘‘Maybe.”
I tried as best I could to console her, though mothers are supposed to console their child... She had become more and more a child those past year, crying when she burnt Daddy’s supper, or when she accidently let my dog Bambino outside of his pen, or when my dad hit her with a shovel in the driveway in December. He said it too, “Arlene, you’re being a child.”
Car lights flashed upon the wall. Dad was home. My mother got up from her chair, smoothed her skirt, dried her eyes, and took a deep breath. Her heels click-clacked on the linoleum floor, click, clack, click clack, It sounded like a clock, ticking away her time, time to live. She opened the door, ‘‘Honey, we’ve been waiting for you—“
“I’m not hungry.” He said, roughly pushing past my mom, and knocking her off her heels. She fell to the floor with a thud. Like a ragdoll. A child. Tears came running down her face, pouring. “I’m so sorry, she stammered, “So, so, sorry.”

He stood over her, studied her, as if he was a butcher trying to decide how to slice his meat in the quickest way possible, to get it done and over with. He reeled his fist back, and punched her right in the face. Again and again, over and over, Mom’s head flew back with each punch, and then slammed forward, her head bouncing like a ball, against the wall, against, his fist. I couldn’t take it. I over turned the table, silverware, potatoes, wine, spilling about. I screamed, and ran out the door, across the yard and over the fence.

I ran to Michael’s house. He was my best friend, my savior. I had told him everything. The screaming and fighting, the bruises were nothing new to him. He would instantly know if I was having a bad day, and we’d go for a walk, and we would talk about it. Most guys weren’t really down with being the shoulder to cry on, though he didn’t seem to mind. I walked up his front porch steps and rang his doorbell. He was at the door within 5 seconds.
“Hey Jay,” he said. He was dressed in a white t-shirt, black shorts, and white ankle socks. Casual
Wednesday, I smiled thinking to myself.
“You’re just in time; my mom just took Tabby to daycare.” He said, heading towards the kitchen.
“You mean, she’s not here to throw up on me? Darn.” I faked disappointment.
“So… what’s up.?” We sat down on his bar stools in his kitchen.
“Parents.” We said at the exact same time. I proceeded to tell him the ordeal. When I finished, he stroked my cheek. “B------s,” he said. “B------s.”

We were sitting on his couch watching an old Hallmark movie, laughing at the cheesy plotline and bad acting. “Antoine,” I mimicked, “Don’t go.”
“But Geneva, I mustn’t miss the two hour season finale of, “The tellytubbies, Where Are They Now. Laughing and joking, I felt better than I had felt all week.

***This is NOT a finished product, there WILL be more!!

The author's comments:
It's always been a part of who I am, I'm a little different, and I wanted to try to make one of my charactes be a little different too. Not many fiction stories deal with domestic violence in the home, so I've decided to try it.

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