Short Story

I wrote up an unnamed short story for Oakstar/Ayla/Panda's blog Our Words, Our Voices, which I've submitted to her Sunday Showcase. You'll find that story below.
The story is about a young girl in a family where she doesn't feel loved, who seeks refuge in an old library she was gifted by her father. She struggles to find her place in the world, as she's bullied at school and has an abusive mother - books are her best friend.

I breathed hard against the glass and watched as my breath took the form of a swan, opening the door. I stepped inside this secret haven of mine. It was a place I resigned to in the evenings when I felt I desired peace and quiet. The place where I felt most comfortable was in this average-sized room, the walls lined with bookshelves, with a large window providing a view of the Chicago skyline. The smell of books filled the air, and at that moment, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Books soothed me. It was sort of a library of my own, a room where I could just escape the stresses of my day. I didn’t have to worry that my mother would storm in and reprimand me for reading when I had a long list of chores to pass the time. I didn’t have to worry about being judged because I found basketball uninteresting, or because I had thick-rimmed black glasses the kids liked to throw around, or because I wasn’t exactly up-to-date on the latest mascara. I was accepted in this little world of mine, a feeling I wouldn’t find elsewhere.

So I had perfectly good reasoning to be bewildered when my mother’s two-inch heels clacked the ground. “What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled at me. “I’ve been watching you all this time, your breath forming funny shapes. You think I don’t know? Answer me!”

I couldn’t say a word. I tried to respond, say something smart, but my mouth refused to open. She walked over and slapped my face until I felt blood dribbling in my mouth. I didn’t do anything. I regretted it, but I knew the consequences would be serious if I reacted violently. She would attack me, much worse than she did before. When I was ten she bruised me by thrusting the running vacuum cleaner at me, a mark I still have to this day.

My world tumbled. How could I have thought for even a moment that she wouldn’t find out? I looked up at her, in a way that pleaded for mercy, but of course that’s not the way she handled things.

“Get up,” she barked. “Now. You’re not going to get away with this easily. What did I say about these books? I’m sure they won’t benefit you; you’ll still be the same stupid, useless, ungrateful brat you’ve always been. Go iron the clothes or I’ll choke you.” She said a handful of swear words too, which I won’t include.

I sighed, following her to her bedroom. There was a reason she was so abusive. My dad died when I was four, and any memory of him died along with him. The library had been a gift from him, and after his death my mother had wanted to get rid of the books and conceal the room. She was nasty before my father died, but almost saintly compared to now.

When she finally left me alone to finish my chores, I vacuumed her room and scrubbed the toilet in the master bathroom. I wiped down the sink and scrubbed away at lipstick smudges on the counter. I ironed her immense wardrobe and lined up her heels. I organized her clothes by color before wrapping up my chores for her bedroom and getting ready to make dinner. Before leaving, I took one last, long look out the window. I needed to escape.