Chapter 2: Bruised

Eden's POV

Can my life get any worse? Why did I have to get fired? I ask myself, wiping the tear that's sliding down my cheek. I trudge home, clutching my purse and sobbing as I think about how I'm going to get another job.

I really need money and hence, I had to put up with so much at the diner. I didn't care about how greasy the floors were, or how the smell of stale coffee clung to my uniform the whole day, or even how the customers treated me like dirt.

I didn't care about how the toilets always seemed to be clogged, or how the trash cans were always overflowing, or even how the kitchen sink was usually filled with greasy water. Even when the kitchen was infested with rats and cockroaches, I kept my mouth shut because I wanted to keep my job.

The customers' irritating and nagging attitudes didn't seem to hold me back even when they bothered me. And neither did my former boss' grumpiness. That man hates me and I have no idea why. It's not like I ever did anything wrong to him. Nothing I did was ever enough for him.

He complained about everything and never listened to the reasons I gave whenever I was late. Just like how he didn't let me explain myself when I'd lost track of time, trying to cover up the bruises on my face and arms all thanks to my dad.

Deep inside of me, I'm slightly relieved that I don't have to deal with all that anymore. But, now what? I'm unemployed, broke and stuck living with my abusive father. What do I do? And where do I go from here?

Getting a job these days is extremely difficult and there aren't a lot of options for a high school dropout like me. At this rate, I'd never be able to save up for college. Forget college, how would I even survive? How would I put an end to this cycle of poverty?

I feel so hopeless right now and I don't see any way out of this. I've tried so hard to make things work but everything just keeps blowing up in my face. Perhaps I'm a loser, a good-for-nothing like my father says I am.

I sigh and wipe away another tear, trudging up the steps to my front door and wondering what other joys await me inside. But I know only one thing is inside, waiting for me. And the stench of cigarette and alcohol lingering in the air only confirms it. He's home.

After staring at the creaky door for what feels like hours, I push it open and stride into the living room of our rundown apartment. I brace myself for whatever he might throw at me tonight. Perhaps it'll be a punch, a vase, a beer bottle or even my mum's favourite stool.

“You're late,” my father's hoarse, throaty voice greets me, washing my entire body with dread. “Why?”

I bite my bottom lip, tightening my grip on my purse and glancing down at the floor. “I... I..."

“Stop stammering like a goddamn fool and tell me where the hell you've been!” he yells, standing up from the couch. He glares at me, his eyes bloodshot from alcohol and bores them into me with contempt.

His hair is a dirty mess, his face, a map of wrinkles and creases, with dark circles under his eyes and a rough stubble. His shirt is rumpled and stained from his countless nights of drinking, outlining his beer belly. His breath makes me nauseous.

The stench of his cheap booze and cigarette all over him makes my stomach turn and had I not been used to it by now, it sure would have knocked me out at twenty paces.

My father's eyes rake me and I can tell he's figured out something. ”Where are the fries?” He asks, his eyes pinned on my hands.

I always brought leftover fries from the diner and whenever I didn't, he'd teach me a very good lesson. Now that I no longer work there, it means no more fries and more bruises for me.

“Um... There are no fries. I... didn't bring any,” I mutter more to myself than him and gulp hard before continuing. “I got fired.”

“What?” He fumes, marching towards me and I back away from him. “You got fired?”

I try to speak, but my voice catches in my throat. I try to explain but the words won't come out. All I can do is stand there, frozen in fear, as my dad's anger boils over. I doubt explaining myself will do any good anyway.

And then, suddenly, everything goes black.

When I come to, I'm lying on the floor, my head throbbing with pain. My dad is standing over me, his face twisted in a snarl.

“You're worthless, just like your mother,” he growls, his voice like a snake slithering through the grass.

He gives me a hard kick to the stomach and another on my back. He continues his assault on me for some more minutes, reminding me how useless I am, how I'll never amount to anything and how I'm as dumb as my mother.

I lay there helplessly, crying and reminiscing about the good old times despite the immense pain I'm going through. Before my dad became a wreck, he was a police officer and life was pretty smooth for us.

Everything changed when my mum left him for another man, a richer man. First, he lost his job after drinking on duty and shooting an innocent man for mistakenly reaching for his wallet. Then, he spiralled into alcoholism and took out all his frustrations on me, turning into the abusive monster he is now.

As much as I want to leave him, I can't. He's the only family I have left and I feel so sorry for him sometimes. Everyone has a way of dealing with pain and I guess that's just his sick, pathetic way of doing that.

When my father is done beating me up, he staggers away, leaving me lying on the floor, bruised all over. My body aches yet I manage to stand up and go to my room.

An hour later, my phone rings and I contemplate answering it. I pick it up eventually. “Hello?” I whimper.

“Hello?” the female voice on the other line says. “Eden Rowe?”

“Yes,” I peep out.

“I'm calling from the Calloway mansion.”