The Fight - the daughter

She had needed him, and he was there.

It was a pity that her mother did not share this simplistic view, she
had time to reflect briefly, before she was pulled clumsily through the
door of her home, by the roots of her brittle bleached hair, and
slapped again and again, with alarming accuracy, across her young
painted face.

It was also a pity, that she had not yet learned how to hold back the
tears, that now spilled from her fast-swelling, mascara stained eyes.
For any sign of weakness, would only anger her mother even further. The
cold February air, on that crisp morning, reverberated through the
middle-class neighborhood, with the sharp sounds of bitter sobbing, and
language that should only be heard through the muted tones of a late
night XXX television program, (that no self-respecting middle class
person, living in a middle class neighborhood, should stay awake to
watch- especially if they have to work the next morning). Yet here it
was, in it's fully fledged glory, arrogantly drowning out, and
disrupting the innocent young viewers, of Children's Time Television-
whom left their cross legged positions on the living room floor, and
ventured to peep through the curtains (closely followed by their
parents, not yet left for work), to capture some of this marvelous
real-life drama. Eager to report to their friends at school, the new
words they had learned that day, and to recount the vicious noises of
"thwack&;#8230;.thwack&;#8230;" as skin was slapped repeatedly
against skin. Over, and over, and over again.

Such vast worlds away, from the skin on skin contact she had felt, but
hours earlier. The warm feeling that had risen inside of her, as he had
taken her cold reddening hand, and slipped it inside his own warm
gloved one, was becoming a fast dimming memory. Quickly replaced by the
hot humiliation of stinging skin, and stinging pride. Later, she would
recall that evening with longing. Rearranging the facts to fiction, so
that she would press her unclothed and inexperienced body against his.
Unsure of what they were doing, but knowing that whatever it was, it
felt right. She would melt like warm butter, amid his protective arms.
And be loved.
When her mother felt that an appropriate amount of time had passed,
(one that was sufficient enough to punish the girl for her sins, while
alleviating a little of her own anger), she relaxed her grip, long
enough to allow her daughter to struggle away- leaving a substantial
amount of the girls hair, in her clenched fist.

The girl stumbled hastily to her room, and locked the door securely
behind her. Thank God that they didn't live in one of those new houses,
where locks on each door were not required. A fire hazard it may be,
but at least for now, this heavy wooden door would allow her some
refuge. She threw herself onto the make-shift bed of dirty sheets, and
bare pillows, that were muddled against the ragged carpet, curling
herself into a tight ball, waiting for the ringing rage in her ears, to
quiet itself.

"How could she hit me like that?" The question hung in the air, unheard
and unanswered, as always.
"And why do I allow it?"
She fought back the tears, which it seemed was now far easier, than in
her mother's presence. Although nearly sixteen years old, and
approaching the legal age to get married (oh, how she wished that some
handsome prince, would whisk her from this family, and into another),
her mother made her feel like a pathetic two-year old. Defenseless
against the beatings- though it was rather hard to fight against them,
when you had no idea, when or where, or even why, they would strike.
She loathed her mother for making her feel this way.

Her best friend, her dearest friend, and her only friend, had told her
that you choose how you feel, and that the way in which she reacted to
her mother, was merely an inner program that would need to be changed.
Easier said than done. On the one occasion that her mother had come to
watch the school play several years ago, she had been so nervous her
voice had dried up completely, and the understudy had needed to take
over her role- one of the lead parts- while she sobbed and cursed
herself backstage. She excelled in drama- and knew it. That was why Ms
May had cast her in the lead role. Now she was letting everyone down.
The understudy had clearly not under-studied. SHE should be playing the
lead- yet with her mother there she could not do it. Why could she not
do it?

Her best friend had said that there was no such thing as 'could not,'
there was only 'choose not to'. Her best friend had told her that she
had deliberately chosen not to dazzle onstage in front of her
mother.

Sometimes, she hated her best friend too.

She had fought back to her mother only once. A short while ago- over
the Christmas holidays in fact. Her mother had come home early, from
her job as a receptionist at the Vet Clinic. She thought that her
mother had looked like, she had been crying. Though she was not crying,
by the time she had arrived home and found her daughter sitting in
front of the gas fire, with it turned on. ON!!! Her daughter knew that
she couldn't afford to pay for heating- at least not when she wasn't
there herself- and eating ice cream no less! How dare her daughter
spend money on ice cream. She couldn't afford ice cream!

She felt the quick bite, as her mother struck her hard, across the ear,
and a second sting followed as she fell off balance, against the gas
fire. The heat seared just above her brow, and an unfamiliar smell of
burning filled the room, as her ragged sweater brushed through the
flames. She stood up as quickly as she could, now on an almost equal
level (5 ft 7 inches and counting) with her mothers face. It twisted
and sneered its contorted expressions back at her. She slapped it back.
Only once. Not hard. Just to let her mother know that she was big
enough to fight back now. And in less than half a minute was dragged
out- by her hair again- (was that why her mother had a crew cut?), and
spent the next two weeks, sleeping in an alley. The thin coat that was
flung at her, as she was thrown through her front door, became quickly
stained with dog mess, broken branches and molding leaves. It brought
little protection against the harsh English nights.

To be continued...when I want to depress myself :o)