Freed From Death

Freed From Death
By: Amanda Henderson
This is an original story with orginal characters and orginial world. It is not based on anything except an idea of mine. I have enjoyed writing this story and I hope you enjoy reading it. I am thinking of writing professionally so tell me your thoughts on this piece.
~1~

         I have always wanted to die. Not a quick and painless death like what everyone else wants. I do not even want to die in my sleep. No. I want a slow and painful death. One filled with agony, and I can lay there and watch the scenes of my life play before me. Though that would not be much of a life. You see I have parents who hated me. I am the oldest of four children. I guess my parents never figured out how to not have kids. They never cared for any of us, but I was hated most of all. I came around when my parents were just starting out in life. They could have seen the world, but instead my grandfather on my mother's side forced them to marry. It isn't like they aren't the perfect couple, because they really are. Both drink and use illegal drugs. They would rather have those than the four kids they ended up with.
         I guess it is ironic in a way. I ruined my parents life so they have to ruin mine. I am forced each night when I get home from school to clean the house, and take care of my brothers and sister. However, they fend for themselves. They are old enough now. They manage to go to friends houses, and get food. My brothers work. I am not sure what my sister does. We are all close in age. My brothers are 16, and my sister is the youngest of us all. I alway thought that I was suppose to take care of them, but really they watch out for me. They all have. Especially my brother Michael. He hates to see me get hurt.
         Either way I still wish for death to take me. I do not belong here. My siblings will be alright when I am gone, and my parents would never notice. I was merely their slave. They have called me that since I learned to walk. That is another thing strange about me. I can remember since I was two years old. Doctors will tell you that you can't remember until you are four years old, unless you have had a tramatic past. I guess I did, but all I remember is that one day I decided to get up and walk about the house. I think I was searching for food. I remember my diaper being full and needing to be changed, but I dared not cry. I didn't want mother to yell at me for crying and waking her. I remember she was laid on the couch watching television. She had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in another. Although now looking back I suppose it wasn't a cigarette at all, but a joint. Yeah I know how to roll them too. Though my mother doesn't hardly allow me to. They are afraid that I smoke the foul smelling things. I shudder every time I walk by their room.
In a way I guess this is the same as dying. Seventeen years of parents who want nothing to do with you. But then again I have to think. Am I really even seventeen? Are my brothers sixteen and my sister ten? We do not know, and can simply guess. We aren't allowed to celebrate birthdays. Our parents hate us. To be honest I do not know what grade I should be in anymore. When my mother had little sister, I was pulled out of school to care for her. They would have kept me from going entirely, but they did not want to teach me to read and write. That is the only part they cared about.
         I supose you are wondering why I am telling you this story right? well it isn't because I want to. No. I am forced to tell you this story, because right now I am dying, and only have a little time left here. The police seem very interested in my life story. I do not know why. My parents may have hated me, and not wanted me, but they are not the reason I lay here in this hospital bed. I can hear the machines beeping, and I can feel things sticking to me. It is annoying and I want them to go away. I heard the nurse telling someone that the machines were keeping me alive. Who is here with me? I know it is not my parents. They wouldn't care. They never did before.

~2~

         I remember the time I broke my wrist. I went running to mother, but she pushed me away and told me I was fine. That it was only a scratch. I couldn't move my hand. If I did sheering pain coursed through my arm. Michael saw. He knew what happened. He had been the one to walk me to the clinic five blocks from the house. It had been a long walk, and the nurse had asked what had happened. I told her that I had fallen from a tree. That was a lie. Looking back I wish I had told her the truth. Father had gotten mad at me for not doing something. I think it was for not cleaning the floors with bleach. We had ran out of gloves and I am allergic to bleach. Anyway, he had thrown me onto the floor. I landed on my wrist. He picked me up by my sprung wrist and twisted. I bruised of course, but I lied to the nice nurse.
I feel someone's hand grab mine, pulling me from the blackness that is my mind. I can hear him speak. I know it is a male. His voice is deep and alluring. I am trying to move my hand to let him know that I know he is there, but my limbs seem to not respond to my command. I can not help but wonder what has happened to me, and then I fall back into the blackness. Though I know I am dying, it is painless. The doctors must be giving me something to ease the pain. I wish they wouldn't. It is painful enough remembering my life story.
         When Michael and I returned to the house my mother was laying on the floor with a needle laying beside her. I looked down at Michael and pulled him into a hug, and then went in search for my other brother and sister. They were in their hiding place. Father had gone on a rampage when he could not find me. He had torn the house apart looking for me. I hugged my siblings and told them everything would be all right. But I had been wrong. Nothing was all right, and I was not sure it ever would be. I looked for our father, but I did not find him. I did not know when he would return, but I started to clean up the mess. I knew he would blame it on me. He always did.
         It was late that night when he returned. The house was spotless, just like he had wanted. I used the bleach though it nearly killed me. Michael had managed to get the shots I would need from the nurse, and I thank him that he did. Otherwise I would have died that night, and at that age I was not ready to die. It wasn't until I got older that I was ready to die. I truly hated my life. When father found me, I was in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes from the dinner I had cooked. I had left some food out for father, but I doubted he had wanted any of it. He surprised me though. He grabbed the plate, heated it up and sat at the table and ate his meal. I had to force myself not to stare in disbelief. That was the first time I had ever seen my father do anything for himself. He had always said that he worked to pay the bills, so we had to take care of the house.
         After he finished eating, he brought the plate to me for me to wash. I was glad for this small change, but I knew it wasn't going to last. Why should it? He was a working man. I remember he stood there looking out the kitchen window for what felt like forever, and even though I had finished washing the dishes, I dared not move from my spot. I still needed to wipe down the counters and the table. He grabbed my casted arm gently and looked down at it. His words still ring clear in my mind today.
         "Things are going to change around here Lizzy." I had looked up at him in shock. I had wanted to ask him many questions about what he had meant by that. But I said nothing. The shock that he had used my nickname, had stunned my silence. He normally called me girl, never by any name.

~3~

         The warmth of someone touching me is back. He is telling me something. What is it? My mouth feels dry and I want something to drink, but no words leave my lips. This sucks. I am trapped within my own body. But I am beginning to feel again. Before I felt empty. I try to move something. Anything. I think my finger moves, but I am not sure. I hear the man jump up and rush from the room. He is not gone long. He has brought someone with him, and she checks the machines, then asks me to move my finger again. I try, but nothing moves. I hear her tell the man that it was a muscle spasim, but I know that is not true. I had moved my finger. I guess I am getting better. So maybe I am not dying. This feels like dying though.
         Another memory takes me away from the world of the living. The first time my father ever touched me. I was ten. Mother had already fallen asleep when father got home that night. I knew the touch was wrong, but I was so small. I could not stop him. If I tried to stop him he would have beaten me to death for not allowing him the pleasure he so dearly wanted. The next few nights were the same. Always touching me, always taking what he wanted. After that he brought a friend home. His friends always gave him money, and they would take me to a room with a bed. Father allowed them to do whatever it is they wanted with me. I even remember the camera set up in the corner of the room pointed at the bed. He always offered his friends the video for extra money. Sometimes they took the video, other times they denied, having spent their money just to have their way with me.
         I was so young. I didn't know what to do. I didn't have a concept of right and wrong. I allowed those men to have their way with me. I allowed father to do those things. He told me that I had to earn money to help pay the bills, and that this was the way I was to earn the money he had wanted. I remember curling up on the cold floor of my bedroom and crying myself to sleep each night. Eventually the tears stopped flowing, and I became emotionless. I felt nothing. The pain was gone. The saddness was gone. Sometimes mother would be there. I read nothing on her face as she watched expressionless. Sometimes I thought she cared. In the end I guess she did. Or she just wanted father to herself.
         Mother killed herself that night she caught father touching me. That is all he had done. It had not gone any further. He lightly touched my shoulder. But mother saw. She knew. Grief overtook her, I suppose. She couldn't stop father anymore than I could. I had noticed she had taken to drinking more when she would shoot up. I hated seeing mother like that, but she had hardly been there. She had always been drugged. Looking back, father was the one that raised us.
         When mother killed herself, father grabbed all of us and we left. We moved to another town, not too far from where we were. It didn't take us long to pack. We never had much. I remember looking back at the house as the blue lights flashed. Father must have called the police, which meant he didn't want to lose us kids. He had his purpose for us though. I was to be the house wife. He would put Michael and James to work. Lilly...poor Lilly. She wouldn't last long without mother. Mother cared for her the most. Even in her drugged state. Lilly was mother's favorite. They would go out to town each week, and just do girl stuff while I stayed at home and cleaned, took care of the letters, and made sure my brothers did the yard work.
         Four months after we had moved away, Lilly died. She had refused to eat. She had been ill before, and mother did everything in her power to keep Lilly alive, but this time mother wasn't there. Mother wasn't there to make her better. My brothers and I were glad to see her suffer end. We were sad that our baby sister was gone, but now she was free. She had her wings.

~4~

         He is back again. Or maybe he has never left and I am just coming to. I hope I am. I have decided I do not like the feeling of death. But what happens if I come around? Is father still out there? I know this man is not father. His energy is different. Father's energy was dark. Always dark. Not this man's. This man has a light energy. I wonder who he is. Maybe if I wake up he will tell me. The harder I try the quicker I am dragged back into the blackness of my mind. I know I am making progress though. I know I am getting better. The burning is gone.
         Burning. I know that feeling. Father had gotten mad at me because one of his friends had been caught with a video. A video that father had made of me and his friend. The stove top was on, as I was cooking dinner. Father grabbed me. He was rough like he always was, unless he was touching me. Touching was much gentler. I saw the anger in his eyes, and I knew what was going to happen long before it happened. He held my hand on the stove top. It felt like hours before he pulled it off, but it was only until the skin started to make a foul smell. I was crying. I couldn't help it. Father hates it when we cry, but this hurt.
         When he released me, I held my burnt hand to my chest, wishing the pain to go away. He turned to leave the kitchen, and turned to me. "You better hope he doesn't say a damn word. If he does you can expect a lot worse than that." And he stormed out of the room. I wanted to scream, but nothing left my lips. I slid to the floor and cried. Michael found me sitting there, water boiling on the stove. He rushed to me and saw my hand. Michael hated father ever since father first hurt me, and he would have left, but it was me that kept him there. I should have tried to convince him to leave without me. Michael knew I wouldn't leave. Father would have found me.
         I remember the look on Michael's face when he saw the burn. A look that meant he would kill father. I told him not to. I told him I deserved the punishment. I truly believed I did at the time, but it was not my fault that the friend had been caught with the movie. Michael leaned the wound, and did the best he could. We didn't go to the clinic or the hospital that time. That would have angered father even more if the police had showed up. If they had, they would have searched the house and would have found the videos. Father and all of his friends would have been in jail.
         I should have gone. If I had maybe now I would not be laying in a hospital bed. I would be in my own bedroom with people who love me. I think the man that is always in the room with me is a cop. I am not sure though. I won't know until I wake up. I want to wake up now. I am done sleeping, but my body does not respond. My eyes refuse to open. I am not healed enough yet.

~5~

         The year I turned fourteen was the year Michael and James left home. Michael promised to be back for me, but he never came, and I never saw him again after that. I never even heard from him. He was probably afraid that father would find him, and force them to come back home. The only thing I do know is that they went far away. I could have gone with them, but it would have been too much on father. God why do I een care for the man who has done so much to me? It makes no sense, but it is the only life I ever known.
         Everytime I think of Michael and James, I picture them in a better home. A home where the parents care about them. The thought makes me smile as I scrub the hardwood floors in the living room. I imagine my brothers are truly happy with their new lives. A couple of weeks later child services comes to the house. I have been lucky not to have gotten into any trouble, and father seems to be sober for now. He has hidden the videos. I think father had been tipped off, but I would not know. He lets the nice people in, and he pretends that he is a good father. I play along. When they ask why I am not in school, father hesitates, and I tell them that I am home schooled. Father goes with that, and explains that he does not like the school system and it is much easier to teach me at home.
         There is a nice woman here. I picture that she was the one that took care of my brothers when they ran away. I am afraid to ask, because father makes it seem like I am an only child. That mother died giving birth to me. I hate all these lies. I want to tell the truth so they will take me away, but I am scared of father. The woman asks to show her my room. Father had bought me a bed, and I got to make the room look like an actual bedroom. I hope I get to keep these things. They are very nice. I think I might get to keep them, but I will not be able to read the books or play with the toys.
I laugh in my mind. I was fourteen and wanting to play with the dolls, and stuffed animals. I had never had toys up until then, so maybe that is normal? I wouldn't know though. I was never around other kids my age. It had always been my brothers and myself after my sister died. I took the nice lady to my room. I barely say anything. I am afraid to without father there with me. He knows what to say. I show the woman my toys, books and bed. I think she knows that these are all new, but I tell her I do not like to play a lot.
         The woman seems to buy the act. They all do, and eventually they leave. Father watches as they pull away, and then grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels. He goes to his study and slams the door. I know he is angery, and I will be beaten for it later. Sometimes when he is angery he lashes out at me without letting is anger build up, but for the most part he goes and sits. He allows his anger to build inside him until he can no longer take it, then comes and beats me. Since Michael has left, I tend to my own wounds. I have learned all I have needed to know from Michael. There have been very few times I have had to go to the hospital, and when I do have to go, I go when father falls asleep and I make sure I am back before dawn.
         I jerk myself to the surface again. Father?! I know I have been gone for far too long. Father will be searching for me. I have to wake up and get out of here. I have to return to father. My eyes flutter but they still wont open. I hear the machines beeping out of control. I am panicing. Father will find me, and when he does he will not be happy. I feel several people around me, talking. I do not hear what they are saying, but a few moments pass and I am calm again. What did they give me? I really need to wake up now. Why can't I wake up?

~6~

         How long have I been asleep? I cannot tell, but I know it must be time to wake up. I try moving my fingers, and this time I can move my hand. I can't help but smile to myself. The man is still there. I know he is, and before long there is a doctor. I see a bright light, and I try running towards it. The faster I run the further it gets, and soon I am back in the blackness. Before I am back in the darkness I hear the doctor say that I am coming around. I am close to being human again. I have come to realize that I miss the feel of the rain. The feel of the wind blowing through my hair. The mud on my feet. The color of the sky on a cloudless day. I miss it all. Maybe when I awaken they will allow me to go outside. I love the outside. I feel free there.
         When father is away at work, and after I have completed the house chores I go outside, and lay in the sun. If there is rain, I lay in the mud and let the rain drops fall on my face. It is refreshing. The day the rain fell heavy I had stayed outside too long. It was only last year. Father had come home and was searching for me. He had brought home a friend for me to care for. Instead he found me out in the rain, covered in mud. He dragged me back into the house, and beat me until I bled. I did not scream. I had learned very early not to scream or cry. Father then forced me to shower and clean the house. After all that was done, I was presented to his new friend that he had met in a bar. I was told to do whatever the man wanted. It was just like any other friend I took care of. Though this man was different. This man seemed closer to my age.
         We went to the room, and I removed my robe. The man took one look at me, and clinched his fists. I remember feeling shy around him. That was a first. Normally I felt nothing. I watched him as he circled around me. He then went to the video camera and cut it off. That was a first. He must be paying father a great deal. The man handed me the robe and told me to put it back on. I hesitated, not sure what to think of this, but I obeyed. I put the robe back on, and he guided me back to the bed. His toush was light. It seemed like he was afraid that he was going to hurt me, but he didn't. I loved his caring touch.
         He told me his name was Jacob, and he asked me mine. It had been years since I heard my name, but I remembered after a few minutes of silence. Elizabeth I told him. He brushed my hair out of my face so he could see my eyes. He seemed worried for me. He was the first one of father's friends that seemed to really care. Then again most of those men were like father. He asked me a few more questions about myself, and I told him as little as I could. I was not sure what to think of this friend. I knew I felt safe with him, but I was still leary of him. There was no telling what this guy was going to do.
         After an hour had passed, he kissed the top of my hand and left. I looked at the closed door, shocked. I heard Jacob tell father that I preformed as expected and that he would definately return. And he did return. Each time was much the same. He would shut off the camera and then we would sit and talk on the bed. He barely ever touched me. This went on for months, and I was starting to trust Jacob. I wanted to tell him everything that had happened. I was going to the next time I saw him, but that night father decided it was time to leave. He believed we had been there too long, and we needed to start over. I remember panicing. I didn't want to leave Jacob. He was my friend. Not father's, but I did not say anything. I silently went and packed what I needed.
         We loaded everything into the truck and left. It had been pouring down rain and hail. A tornado was in the area. Far enough from us, but not too far that we did not get the rain and hail. Father was in a hurry, just like he always had been. That is all I remember. Why can't I remember anymore?

~7~

          I have to wake up now. I see a light, and I walk towards it. If I go slow then maybe it will not disappear so quickly. To my relief it stays, and grows. My eyes flutter open, and I have to let my eyes adjust to the dim light of the hospital room. I can feel the IV in my arm, and I want it gone, but I say nothing.
         I glance around the room. It is empty. I sigh with relief, though I know someone will join me soon. I want to sit up, but I am too stiff to move. I hear the rattle of the door, and I want to go back to sleep, but then I see Jacob enter the room. I smile faintly. He has been the one here all along. He was my light when I was in the dark. I raise my hand, and he looks to see that I am awake. He rushes to me, calling for the nurse and doctor to come in. The next few moments are chaotic. It is hard to keep up with everything, and I am happy when I am finally alone with Jacob.
         I am now sitting up in the bed, waiting for some food and drink the nurse has promised to bring me. I look forward to that as well. From what I have been told I have been asleep for a few weeks. They hadn't expected me to wake up, but I did. I am alive, but I worry for father. No one has given me any news that father has been here. I know he has. I know he had to be searching for me. I smile faintly at Jacob. He must know I am worried.
         "Elizabeth, do not worry. You will be alright." He tells me calmly. I shrug and look to the now open windows. Well the curtains are open. It is raining outside, but not has heavy as that night. Jacob gently takes my hand in his. "I have to tell you something Elizabeth." I look at him. I am afraid to talk in case father is outside the door. Jacob runs his free hand through his hair. He must be stressed. "I am the son of the police cheif here. We have gotten reports of what your father had done to you. My father needed my help. He thought you would be more comfortable with someone closer to your own age."
         I have to look away from him. He had come to my father's house to get me away from father? I manage to find my voice, though it is cracked and dry. "Have you lost your mind? Father would have never let me go." Jacob must be mad. I pull my hand away from him. I didn't want him touching me. "He will be searching for me. He will want me back."
         "I do not think your father will be searching for you. Do you not know what happened?" I shake my head and instantly regret it. I realize that my head hurts like hell. I close my eyes and wince in pain, but I do not cry out in pain. Jacob reaches for the nurses button. "You're in pain." He seems to know me pretty well, but I move my hand to cover the button.
         "I do not need anything. I am fine." I was fine. I didn't want the help. I had gone years living with the pain. Jacob sighed. "I need to get out of here and go back home." Jacob sat back.
         "You can't."
         "Why?"
         "You do not have a home to go back to. The tornado destoried it, along with your father."
         "What are you talking about?" Jacob leans closer to me, and is about to speak when another man enters the room. Jacob stands.
         "Elizabeth, this is my father, the cheif of police. He is here to help you with any questions you might have. He also wants to know your story." I groan and close my eyes. I don't want to do this. I was already having to think about what Jacob had said. Father's house and father were both gone? Father wouldn't leave me. He needed me.
         "Ms. Elizabeth, do you mind if I sit down?" The older man asked. I nodded and motion to the chair beside my bed. Jacob leaves, and the older man pulls out a notebook. "We have been waiting a long time for you to come around. How are you feeling?"
         "Dizzy." I didn't have to think about that answer. I was dizzy.
         "Would you like me to call the nurse in to bring you medicine?"
         "I do not need medicine. I need to go home to father. I have a house to clean. I am surprised he isn't here now throwing a fit about me being in here." The cheif stiffened and looked sternly at me. He makes me feel like a child.
         "Ms. Elizabeth, your father died. The storm killed him. You are free from your father." I look at him in disbelief. My father dead? That can't be right. Flashes of that night come to my mind. We were sliding. Father was in such a hurry he lost control of the truck. I grab my forehead and shake my head. I thought I couldn't cry anymore, but I was. I just didn't know if I was happy or sad that my father was gone. "We have located your brothers. James and Michael. Their adoptive parents are bringing them up this afternoon to see you. Elizabeth can you tell me how old you are?"
I look up at the cop. He doesn't know me does he? Then again I do not know myself. "All I know is my name. My first name. I do not know anything else." I reply somberly. He nods and writes in his notebook. He asks a few more questions, and writes the answers down. He then presents me with a blue piece of paper, and at a closer look I realize it is my birth certificate. "How?"
         He smiles and pats my leg. "We got it from your grandfather. He had heard that your father was in a wreck and there was a girl with him." I look closer at the birth certificate. It says I am twenty years old, but that can't be. Then it can. We never celebrated birthdays growing up. "We also have a copy of your brothers' and your sister's." He stood. "Happy birthday by the way." And he left.

~8~

         It was a week before I was able to leave the hospital. My brothers stayed in town with their adoptive parents. They seemed truly happy, and would be graduating high school soon. I was so proud of them. They finally had a family that loved them, and they were able to go to school. I still can't believe I got the ages so mixed up. It can happen I suppose. If there are no celebrations that is.
         I ended up staying with Jacob until I found a job and a small apartment, though by the end of the month he refused to let me go. He knew more about me than I knew about myself. We had fallen for each other and he gave me a reason to live. I was happy, and I was happy making him happy.
         He helped me plan my father's funeral. The morgue kept father until I had saved up the money for a small funeral. Jacob tried to help, but I refused his money. Michael and James helped with the majority of it. They had been working since they were fifteen, and had saved up every bit of their money so they could get a place when they went off to college. Father's funeral wasn't much. Jacob really didn't want it to happen, but he was our father after all.
         At my wedding Michael gave me away, and James stood by Jacob as his best man. Those two had become close friends. I couldn't have been happier. Jacob and I took things slowly concidering my past. He is so different from father. So kind and loving. I could not picture a better life, and to be honest, I never thought I deserved such a life. Father had always told me I was not wanted, that no man would ever marry a whore.
         In truth if it hadn't been for Jacob, I would probably be on the streets, asking for money from men who would touch me. Pay me for my services. Jacob saw to it that it never happened. As I look at him today, and look back to that first day we met, I can truly say that he cared for me that day. I am glad to have him in my life as my husband, and the father to our two beautiful little girls, and a boy on the way.

~The End~