I crept outside, closing the door behind me. Being June, the night air warmed my skin instead of chilling it. My habit of running away had seemed to always take place in the winter months before now. Running away seemed like a coward's way out to most people but it's far from that. It boils down to the basic fight or flight instinct.
Facing humiliation by three hundred hormone ridden teenagers would do more damage to me mentally than any shrink could ever undo. Marsha didn't understand it, but that was ok because not many people could understand the things that teenagers have to live through, especially with a history like mine. With Marsha unable to guide me or help me, I had to resort to what I knew best—fleeing the danger before it struck.
I headed for the coast, intending to walk the coastal path north. I knew there was a youth hostel in Tintagel. If I could make the four hour walk during the small hours then I'd be there already by the time Marsha and Roger woke up and realised I'd gone. I had nearly five hundred pounds in cash on me which I'd earned from various menial jobs and the odd cigarette carton selling here and there.
A full moon and a clear sky highlighted my path perfectly. As I hurried down towards the beach, I took a minute to appreciate the beautiful village in all its glory. It really was the epitome of a sleepy coastal village with scenic views and locals who had lived here all their lives for several generations. The only shame was the younger generation growing up, void of manners and respect, and poisoning it for the future. Without the tourism every summer, small places with local run businesses wouldn't survive.
I picked up the coastal path and scanned the ground ahead of me for potential potholes, dips, dead animals, or anything else I could trip up over. Injuries were easily sustained when not being careful and just blind running to get away from something. The survival instinct was a powerful force, an in-built natural danger detector. To consciously override it and think rationally took a lot of practice.
As I picked my way over the uneven, well-worn, dusty path, I found myself musing over my life. Nearly ten years had gone by since my life unravelled around me like a tragic Shakespearean play. My mother, Nancy, hadn't been much of a mum, to what I recall.
Most of my early childhood memories involved playing on my own in a dark room with broken toys—one legged dolls, or teddies with no stuffing, or crayons that couldn't be sharpened anymore or they'd disintegrate into nothing. My clothes had always been either too big or too small and I'd always worn them for at least two days. Kids at school had teased me, pulling on my unbrushed hair, or holding their noses and telling me I smelled, or even spoiling the single bread and butter sandwich I had every day for lunch just for the hell of it.
I loved my mum though. Her big brown eyes and pink rosy cheeks were always accompanied by a warm smile at the end of every day—a smile that took the chill right out of my soul. We would sit and eat together, sometimes Mum not even eating because she couldn't afford to feed both of us, but I'd insist on sharing my food with her which always filled her Bambi eyes with tears.
Her boyfriend, my dad, liked to pretend I didn't even exist. I'd learned very quickly to get out of his way and stay out of his way because he would literally walk right through me. I'd suffered a broken wrist at age four because I didn't get out of his way quick enough and he knocked me flying into a wall.
I still remember the searing pain that made me howl like anything. Mum had tried her best to soothe me, telling me she would fix it, it would all be ok, but we couldn't go to the doctor because then he'd take me away from her. That made me cry even harder. I loved my mummy.
Two weeks off school spent with a heavily bandaged wrist and what I now know to have been a splint, I was thrown back into normal everyday life with a wrist support to help me through the remainder of my healing. Mum had told the teachers I'd fallen off a pony in my first riding lesson. They seemed more than ok with this explanation and did little to comfort me or help me otherwise.
As I came up to Pentire Point, I took a moment to stop and gaze out over the sea. The lunar rays bounced off the still waters, making something so deadly look so so beautiful. Did I do everyone a favour and just end it all here? My life was nothing but a shitty mess of dot to dot being placed in one foster home to another. I was a drain on the system and beyond psychological help. Would it be easier to just not exist anymore? To find my mum in the afterlife and live my happily ever after there.
A single tear rolled down my cheek, surprising me. I'd not cried about my mum for years but being back in the position of fight or flight again, it was only natural her death would spring to mind.
I came home from school one day to find my mum and dad shouting at one another in the kitchen. The block of flats we lived in was small and dingy and I could hear their argument as soon as I opened the door to the building.
Dad didn't work, as such. His work involved finding men for Mum...to earn money with. At that age, I didn't understand it all. Mum had told me that her job involved making people happy and they paid her money for doing that. Of course, the stark reality of it only became clear as I got older. By the time I was twelve, I knew the full seedy ins and outs of prostitution and pimps and it only served to fill me with more hate and bitterness aimed towards my so-called dad.
Their argument that day escalated into physical violence. That was nothing new—he'd hit Mum before. I'd spent many nights helping her hold bags of frozen peas or sweetcorn to her face. But this was different. I heard the crack of her skull from inside my bedroom. I wanted to run out and see if she was ok, but I knew from experience to just stay hidden when they were arguing.
Mum hadn't made a sound. She normally kicked and screamed and yelled at him but this time there was nothing. I knew it was bad. I hid under my bed and waited for what felt like hours. Not a single noise could be heard except that of my own ragged breathing.
Convinced my dad had left, I dared to open my door just a little bit to see if I could help Mum tend to her injuries. When I saw her face down on the kitchen floor, a puddle of blood and little bits of something around her head, I cried and ran to her, yelling her name. I ran straight through the thick, sticky blood and shook her as hard as I could to wake her up, but it didn't work. I climbed up onto her side and pulled her hair back from her face to see a sight that still haunted me now.
One of her eyes dangled down her cheek like a bit of stringy cheese with a lump on the end. A massive indent caved in the side of her head, bits of broken skull, tissue, and what I now knew to be brain matter, all congealed into a disgusting mess.
I screamed, frightened by the sight and also realising that Mum was never coming back. I'd never see her Bambi eyes full of love and warmth and her smile would never take the ice out of my soul again.
"I wondered where you were, you little shit," Dad said, stumbling through from their bedroom with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bloodied bat in the other. "Come here."
I scrambled off Mum's body, falling backwards into her blood. "You killed Mummy!" I shouted at him, somehow getting to my feet. "You're a bad man."
He took a swig of his whiskey and glared at me with a malicious grin. "You have no idea, little doll. Now come here. I can make some use out of you."
I ran for the front door, which he'd stupidly left unlocked. I bolted down the corridor towards the stairs, screaming and crying for someone, anyone, to open their door and save me. When I heard his footsteps stumbling behind me, I panicked and rushed down the stairs, my legs not cooperating quick enough. I ended up falling down two flights of stairs and breaking my left leg.
Dad scooped me up, put a hand over my mouth, and said, "Shut your noise unless you want to end up like your pathetic mother."
On instinct, I bit him. I bit his fingers that hard his blood sprayed into my mouth and a chunk of his flesh fell onto my tongue. He hollered a string of profanities, but it worked—he let me go. By this point, the commotion had made some of the buildings occupants finally open their doors. Two men grabbed hold of Dad and wrestled him to the ground, cable tying his hands behind his back before calling the police and an ambulance.
A kind old lady brought me a blanket and a sugary drink and sat with me until the paramedics arrived. When I heard a blood curdling scream from above me, I knew someone had found Mum. I thought my nightmare was over. It had only just begun.