Name Unknown - Chapter 3

I grew up in a middle class home. My mum was a accountant and my dad was a wealthy business man. We never struggled for anything, neither me or my little brother. Joshua was a little younger than me and used to tease me about how much I pitied others. I bought lunch for the poor kids at school, instead of dumping change in a buskers guitar case, I would place a crisp £20 note in its place. Whenever I pass charity worker pleading their cause, I would sign up for the odd voluntary job and a monthly payment schedule. Joshua said I was stupid, that I should be grateful for the life I had and not feel guilty for it. Personally, I couldn't see the distinction.

My father was a tormentor, which is probably why he excelled in business. He bullied his way to the top and would have stabbed his own mother in the back if it meant getting ahead. My brother aspired to get approval which was a pointless endeavour because if it wasn't his success, why would he care? My brother saved every school certificate, sports medal and good report card but nothing made a difference. Soon enough, he became more and more like my father. His self resentment and feelings of inadequacy lead him to the same sort of pompous, arrogant behaviour my dad exuded. Ironically, this led to my father somewhat admiring him. He would watch Joshua verbally abuse my mother and I and laugh, spurring Joshua on. His words were knives, cutting me a thousand times over. My mum stood there and took it like a proverbial punching bag. I expected more from an ambitious, successful woman but my dad and brother had that effect on people. It was as if all they had to do was turn a dial and the more they turned, the smaller you became. Neither was happy until you were so small, you might as well have not been there. Being around their ego's in full aggressive swing was like being exposed to a high amount of carbon monoxide. After a few minutes, you feel weak but eventually you just wanted to lose consciousness so it would all be over. The things they used to say have still never let my mind or my lips. I don't talk about it.

As I got older, I built an armour against my father and brother's words. It's not that their words didn't hurt, they did but I managed to zone out and escape into a happier place. I thought about music, my one passion in life. I thought about my guitar and how a strum of the strings created beautiful melodies that lingered in the air long after the notes were played. One time when her father was being particularity nasty, she had to work extra hard to replace his nasty words with musical notes. So hard, in fact, that as she imagined holding her pick and gracefully tugging at the strings, she closed her eyes and twitched her hand as if to replicate the movement. Instantly realsing what she had done, she opened her eyes to see her fathers face 2 inchs from hers. His face was expressionless which was the scariest type. His eyes were as wide and could have turned red at any moment with anger.
"You don't take me seriously, huh? Think this is a joke? DO YOU?!"
"Dad, I'm sorry. Please. I'm so sorry."

That's when the beatings began. I dreamed of running away from that hell hole. Anywhere was better than there. If they could see where I am now, they would laugh in my face. I can hear my father now. "How the might have fallen."