Indoor Thunderstorm

Indoor Thunderstorm
By Stephanie Meyer

She heard the thunder clap and saw the lightening strike while the rain fell hard. The thunderstorm would have been a beautiful sight, if it had been your average thunderstorm. Your average thunderstorm occurs outside, but this type of thunderstorm was inside only. This type scared the little girl even more. The thunder was her parents yelling back and forth. The lightening was them hitting each other. And the rain was the little girl's tears.
Her room was pitch black when she woke up, but she knew her way around the large closet enough to find the door. She grasped the cold doorknob in her small warm hand and pressed an ear against the wooden door, listening to the thunder rumbling on the other side. She held her breath and prayed a silent prayer before she opened the door a tiny crack, probably one or two inches at most. Light from the kitchen flooded her room, showing an unmade toddler bed with a thin blanket on it and a pink carpet, stained with spilled grape juice and a dark red substance. Upon closer inspection, one could tell that this crimson colored substance was dried blood. Evidence of the punishment the night before. The smell of cigarette smoke and garbage stole the little girl's sense of smell, but she was used to it. The kitchen was medium sized with off white walls covered in dirt, and once white curtains, now yellow from cigarette smoke, covered a small and tightly closed window. The floor was filthy, littered with garbage and more dirt covering every inch. A small wooden table was against a corner wall with a mixture of clean and dirty clothes overflowing the top and dirty dishes spilled out of the sink and onto the stained counter. The little girl knew that her house was different than the ones on TV, but she had spent her entire life in that house. It was her home.
Right now, though, her eyes were on her parents. Daddy was yelling at Mommy. Something about her. The little girl hated it when he parents fought about her. It was the fact that they fought about her instead of over her that upset her. It was almost as if they were putting the blame on each other that she was born. She tightened her grip on the doorknob, as the thunder got loud. She closed her eyes as the bad words were thrown back and forth. The rain began to fall out of her closed eyes and soaked the neck of her large worn out sleeping shirt. A crash made the little girl's eyes snap open. The lightening had struck. Mommy had thrown a vase at Daddy. Even though it missed him by a mile, Daddy was really mad. The little girl could only watch and cry as he beat Mommy. The thunderstorms happened every night now. The thunderstorms had been happening so long now, she couldn't remember the sun shine anymore. The times before everything went bad. The times back when he parents loved her. The little girl didn't know why her Mommy and Daddy started hating each other, but soon after that, they started hating her.
Daddy left, for now. The wood door slammed shut behind him, but not after he gave the little girl 'the look'. 'The look' always scared the little girl. It held an accusation in Daddy's eyes. As if it was all her fault. Daddy would never say that, but his eyes would. The thunderstorm was silent now, but the rain still fell and the skies were promising more thunder and lightening, as they remained a dark gray. The little girl wanted to help her Mommy, but now it was her turn.
Whatever Daddy did to Mommy, Mommy did two times worse to the little girl. The little girl quietly shut her door and flew back onto her bed. She hid under her blanket and huddled close to the cold wall for a small sense of security. Her door was slammed open, cracking the wall as the two collided. The little girl didn't have to look up to know what was going to happen. She knew by memory that Mommy was standing in the doorway holding the belt, the hairbrush, or worse, the spatula. The little girl pretended to be asleep as Mommy yanked the blanket off of her, but Mommy knew she was just faking. She pulled the little girl up by her arm, making more bruises where sickly yellow and greenish ones were just starting to fade. Tonight it was the spatula and the little girl couldn't help, but to start crying again.
About fifteen minutes later, the little girl lay in fetal position in the darkest corner of her room. She couldn't sit because her bottom was now badly bruised and sore. And she couldn't lay down either because Mommy had beaten her back and stomach. The stench of blood and hate violated the little girl's nose. She heard nothing, but her own pathetic sobs. The indoor thunderstorm was over . . . for now. But where was her rainbow?