Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) Read Free

fuck, man? Are you insane? You just beat your daughter, you worthless bastard!”
    “Tyler, I swear. Don’t you dare tell me what to do when you’re the one coming into my home and screwing my wife and ruining my family. They’re mine, you hear? Mine.”
    So that’s his name.
    I don’t even have time to think about what just happened. It will only take a few minutes before my dad realizes I’m gone. I run out the door and I hear my mom in the background, crying.
    “You ruin everything. Everything.” Her words slur together. I hear a body crash against a wall and more screams and don’t want to wait around to see who did what.
    I fight the bile forcing itself up my throat. I will not let him win. I shoot a furtive glance back to my house, sitting eerily silent in contrast to the raging argument heard so loud just seconds before. I crumple to the grass in defeat. I’m shivering from the chill of the wet blades, but I simply wipe my cheek and pull my hoodie over my head to protect my skin from the burning of frozen water against the most recent scrapes and bruises.
    It happened again. How could anyone ever want me? How could anyone ever find me attractive?
    I close my eyes as the tears start to fall freely, melting the ice around me.
    Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I am nothing. The internal record player replays the events of the last hour and I start to wonder. How was my mother’s mistake my fault? Why did my father choose to take his anger out on me? I try to push the thoughts out that make me feel like nothing more than a human punching bag and reach for positive memories. Staring at tiny blades of grass glistening with night frost I force these thoughts back and forth through my head.
    Just breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.
    I stay there for about thirty minutes. A bit longer than normal, but my father doesn’t disappoint—I know the routine: anger, remorse, forced forgiveness and guilt. Compulsiveness at its finest. I hear his footsteps before I smell him. I take a deep breath and pray for strength. I close my eyes and for a brief second pretend I’m someone else entirely.
    “Stephanie?” His whisper sounds strained—like he’s fighting back the tears I know will come. I motion to him with my hand, not really wanting to get up and feel how tender and sore he made me. His face breaks through the bushes and he sees me. His shoulders collapse and for a brief second, his face is in his hands.
    “Oh sweetie. Oh Stephanie. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I promised, I know. But I couldn’t help it.
    Please don’t leave me. Please.” His earnest words aren’t new to my ears; it always happens this way. He drinks, we get hit, he says he can’t help it.
    I hate this part more than any other—even more than the fists against skin. How can you not help it? How can you not help hitting your own flesh and blood? I don’t get it. His arms reach to lift me off the grass and I shrug him off—pain shooting up my ribs and radiating off of my knee.
    “Leave me alone!” I say it without thinking.
    I stop breathing.
    Stupid, stupid, stupid I think to myself, waiting for the inevitable backlash. I allowed my voice to be heard, which is the exact opposite of what my dad expects from us. Reconciliation is nothing to him.
    We reunite on his terms. If I don’t feel like it, well.
    I have to at least act like I want to forgive and forget.
    My dad’s face twists in anger. He stands up straight—his eyes wide. You would have thought I slapped him. A sneer crawls across his face and he laughs.
    “What? You want me to leave you alone?” The change in behavior is sudden, but not unexpected.
    My father could be the poster child for a borderline personality disorder triggered by alcoholic stupor. His eyes darken and I bury my face in the grass, grimacing against the melting ice. He turns around and starts walking back to the house, grumbling about my lack of gratitude.
    “You want me to leave you alone?” he shouts over