The Girl With The Broken Heart

Dear diary, he has done it again. The man that is supposed to care for me, supposed to love me, supposed to be the father I do not have. He has hurt me again. Tonight, he got angry because I had left my dishes on the side. After dinner, it was my turn to wash the dishes, but my little brother was crying. He had lost his toy car. So I went to help him. 10 minutes later, I heard a plate smash downstairs and him shouting my name. My heart dropped with fear. I knew he was angry. I told my little brother to get mum to help him and went downstairs. Reminding myself to be strong, do not cry, do not let him see fear, it only makes him worse. I walked slowly into the kitchen with my head held high, repeating the words over and over in my head. Be strong. Do not cry. His face was red with anger, dark eyes bearing into me. “I think you may have forgotten to do something,” he hissed. I tried to explain that my brother was crying and needed help look for his toy. Suddenly, my head hits the wall and his firm hand wraps around my throat. “It was your turn to wash the dishes tonight. You will do this now or there will be hell to pay!” with disgust in his voice, his face so close to mine I could feel hatred radiating off of him. I try to nod my head, but his hand is so tight around my neck I struggle to move, let alone breathe. He releases me, and I gasp for breath. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, making the whole house shake. That will be mum apologising to the neighbours in the morning. Coming up with some story about me and my sister fighting again. This is her latest excuse, teenage tantrums. I refuse to cry. I won’t shed a tear. He does not deserve my tears. I just need to get to my 18th birthday, then I can leave, just 14 more months. ———————————————————— It’s a dark, chilly October night. Stars are twinkling above me and the moon is gleaming a beautiful white, lighting up the clear night sky. I’m sitting in my favourite spot, hidden away from everyone. Few people come down here, especially at night. There are no lights other than the ones coming from the Docks and the moon. Me and my friend Alfie found this place one day after school. I’ve been coming here ever since. It’s not the most glamorous of places, but it’s my place and where I feel safe. I am sitting with a cold, numb bottom on a blue metal bridge along the Docks. Watching the backs of lorries being loaded onto the ferry by bearded men sat in trucks. I often wonder what is in the containers and where are they heading to, also what are the workers thinking, seeing a young 16-year-old girl sitting by herself on a cold metal bridge in the dark. Surely someone must’ve noticed me sitting here most evenings. I have thought about sneaking onto the ferry before. But knowing my luck, I would get caught, and I’d most definitely be in a lot of trouble, which would also mean being grounded for the rest of my life. I have one hand clasping my amethyst necklace and my other holding my pen while I’m writing in my diary. Recapping the events of today, whilst wishing I could run away onto the ferry, finding a new home far, far away from him. The man who is supposed to be my father figure. My dad left when I was 6 years old, and I have not seen him since. It was just mum Lindsay, my little sister, Chloe, and I for a year. Mum met another man when I was 7. He is a tall, bald, lanky man with a bad temper. But my mum worships the ground he walks on. Apparently, he is kind and very generous with his money, so he will support us. As long as she keeps him happy. I personally do not see the appeal. I know I wouldn’t stand by and let a guy abuse my daughters just for money. My mum and so-called stepdad had a child of their own, Luke. He is 4 years old, ridiculously cute and is the golden child of Johnathan and Lindsay Cooper. John sees us as a burden and a reminder that my mom was previously involved with another man. Which he likes to remind us of. He also likes to express how he wishes he could send us off to a boarding school, but he can’t afford the fees, and we are not talented enough to get scholarships, so he’s stuck with us. I sometimes daydream about my dad, using little snippets from memories. I remember when we went on a family holiday and visited a fairground; he took me on some rides. Also, when I was four, I used to help him clean his motorcycle. Normally father, daughter things. I wonder how Dad would react if he knew. Would he take us away? Would he call the police? I have tried to find him a few times. Some days after school, I will go to the library and search for his name online and look at phone books. So far, no luck. I know very little about him, only his name, Richard Anderson, and his birthday, 24th July. I do not know anyone from the family. My mum told me both my grandparents had died, and she lost contact with his sister years ago. When I’ve asked her about him, she gets defensive and tells me he could be dead for all I know. I don’t bring him up anymore and attempt to do my own research. I look down at my phone, surprised it’s 9.15. I have fifteen minutes before curfew. After putting my books, pens, and my half bottle Fanta back in my bag, I grab my little black torch quickly, checking I haven’t forgotten anything. Then carefully walk down the steps of the bridge. The steps can get slippery at night. I walk as fast as I can down the dark path behind the docks, using my torch to guide me towards the main road and also monitoring the ground. I’ve tripped over a few rocks on the path previously, which resulted in having to explain to my mum where I have been and why I’ve got cuts on my hands and knees. So; now I keep a torch in my bag for this very reason. Once I am on the main road, I quickly glance at my phone, panic seeping in and I run as fast as I can. “Only 3 minutes left.” I say out loud to myself, my pulse beating in my ears. I make it to my house with one minute to spare. Unlocking the front door quickly and quietly, sneaking up the stairs trying not to make much noise, I really don’t want to disturb my parents. Luckily, my room is the first up the stairs. Once I am in my room, I close the door, breathe out a long breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. Quickly change into my black pyjamas with little silver stars dotted on them and climb into bed, trying to relax. I hate having to live on eggshells, constantly worrying about what his next move will be. Everyone thinks we’re a happy family, but really we have a dark secret. Behind closed doors, my stepdad turns into a monster. .