Worth Saving by W.S. Greer
Layla
I hear the door slam when he walks in. My heart speeds up a little at first, but it goes into overdrive when I hear him stumble. He kicks a table and loses his balance, letting out a string of profanities at the table for being in his way. I know how the rest of this story can go, so I get up to close my bedroom door. Before I can get it to latch and lock it, he pushes his way in, and I can immediately smell the liquor on his breath. It's like a thick fog that fills the room.
“What the f*ck are you doing in here?” he asks. His face is red, and his eyes are droopy like he's only a few seconds from passing out right here in the doorway.
“Nothing,” I reply. I know the routine-keep the answers short and sweet.
“Nothing, huh? Of course not. That's what you always do-nothing. You do absolutely nothing around here, and I'm so goddamn tired of it.”
“I'm sorry, Dad,” I reply in a soft tone.
“Don't talk to me like that! Ain't no sorry!” he snaps, spitting on me in the process. “Get your ass in there and clean up that living room. It's a f*cking pigsty.”
I hesitate. I don't want to walk anywhere near him right now, but I know if I don't go in there and do what he says, it'll be worse. I swallow hard and think about how to do this.
“Did you hear what I said? Get the f*ck in there, Layla!”
I put my head down and try to speed walk, but before I can make it all the way out of the room, he grabs me.
“What's the matter with you, huh?” he asks, his grip around my arm already tightening. “You don't like being around your own father, do you? You don't like me, huh?”
“Dad, please.”
“Please, what? Come over here and give me a hug.”
I don't want to do it. He's right. I hate him. I can't stand the sight of him, and the last thing I want to do is show him any affection, but I have to hug him. So, I move in close to him and let him put his arms around me, but I don't return the sentiment. I just stand there and feel him rubbing my back with his fingers. After about ten seconds, I hear him sniffing me. He takes a long, drawn out whiff of my hair, and that's when I push away from him. I try to walk away, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and spins me around. Once I'm facing him, he reaches back and slaps me, knocking me to the floor.
“What the f*ck do you think you're doing?” he yells. “You don't want to f*cking hug me? You trying to leave me like your whore mother? Your f*cking junkie mother left me, too. I f*cking hate her. I hate you for looking like her, for smelling like her, for thinking like her. Fuck the both of you. Dammit! Stupid f*cking bitches have no respect for a man. I provide everything for you, and now you can't even hug me. What are you just lying there for? Get up, dammit!”
I look up at him and he looks menacing. He's glaring at me, squinting his eyes, waiting for me to move so he can hurt me. That's all he really wants.
“What's the matter with you? Your legs broken? Or are you just too weak to get up. Fucking coward. You make me sick.”
He starts to walk away, and the look on his face changes a little. He doesn't look as mad now. He looks satisfied. Like he just wanted to come in and prove his dominance over me. Like doing this to me makes him feel like more of a man. Well, I'm fed up. This time, I decide not to stay down.
I get up, and the second I'm standing, he turns back around. His face morphs again, but it's not back to anger. He looks confused. His confusion turns into frustration, and his frustration changes to anger. The next thing I know, he grabs my neck and slams me up against the wall.
“Fuck you!” he screams. “You think you're a woman now? You think you're strong? Think you're a big girl?”
“Get the f*ck off of me!” I yell, as tears start to overtake my eyes.
“You think you're a big girl, don't you? I'll show you a big girl.”
I feel his hand sliding down my waist while he holds my throat with the other. Then, he tries to push his hand between my legs. I cinch them together, but he's too strong.
“No! Fucking stop it!” I scream, but he doesn't listen. He tries to fondle me, and I feel him trying to slide my pants down. That's when I snap.
I lift my knee as hard as I can, and I hit him right in the balls. I hear him scream as he finally lets go of me, but I don't hesitate for a second. I run into the living room and grab a ceramic lamp off the end table. As I walk back over to him, he's on his knees. He has tears in his eyes, probably from the pain, but those tears make me even madder. How dare he have tears. Who is he to cry now? After all he's done to me. After all the times he's hit me. All the name-calling, all the bruises, all the times he wouldn't let me leave the house. How dare him!
I feel my rage reach a boiling point as I lift the lamp over my head and bring it down with every muscle in my body. The lamp shatters over his head and he crumbles onto the floor, unconscious.
I stand there for a second, just looking at him. He's still breathing, which makes me mad. I want to hurt him more. The little amount of blood I see on the top of his head isn't enough to pacify my anger. I want to hurt him more for all the times he hurt me. I want him to bleed for what he just tried to do to me. A part of me wants him dead, and that's why I have to leave.
I rush into my room and quickly fill up my old backpack with some clothes and essentials. Then, I go into his room and look in the drawer where he keeps his money, and I take everything in there. It only amounts to two-hundred dollars, but I make sure not to leave him even one cent. I take everything, and then I walk out the front door.