The Runaway
My
mother left when I was five years old.
Sometimes,
in a drunken rage, my father will talk about her. He says it’s my fault. He
says that if I hadn’t been such a difficult child, she would have stayed.
I
know better.
It
was my father that drove her away. It was his scorching temper, that tendency
to react with violence. She could not take it anymore, the constant danger of
being in her own house. So she left.
What
I will never be able to understand, never be able to forgive her for is leaving
me here. Heartless. She left me behind, letting me deal with father all on my
own. Selfish. Why didn’t she take me with her? Cold. Didn’t she love me?
I
grew up in that cold empty house, locking myself in my room as often as I
could. But sometimes, avoiding my father was impossible. And spending time with
my father usually meant a couple bruises, whether he was drunk or not.
This
is the case today.
Looking
the mirror, I can the see the purplish blotches painted across my face my arms
my neck. A long-sleeved shirt and wintry scarf to cover my arms and neck.
Nothing strange about that. It’s bitter cold in Zaraysk this time of year. I
dab makeup on my bruised face. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding my injuries.
No one knows about the abused life I live.
I
look in the mirror when I’m done, fluffing my hair. I stare back at the mirror.
This is the girl everyone sees. Serious about her studies, fun to talk to,
living an absolutely perfect life. What they don’t know is that girl is a lie.
I
grab my bag, tiptoeing past my father passed out on the couch. Classes will be
starting soon and I can’t be late again. I’ve been beat before school before,
making me late. Then, of course, when my father gets a phone call about me
being late I get a few more bruises as punishment.
It’s a fairly uneventful day at school. I put
on my usual bubbly face, laughing and flirting and being the Tatyana Galerkin
everyone knows and loves. It’s not until the end of lunch that things get a
little more interesting. There’s a table set aside for strangers in the
cafeteria. I tell my group of friends to go on without me.
“What’s
this?” I ask, putting a hand on the table.
The
woman standing there smiles. “The Verona Modeling Agency is looking for new
talent. We need new, young models, girls your age.” She hands me a brochure.
“We’re holding auditions in Moscow on Saturday. Would you be interested?”
Yes
yes yes yes yes. Totally and completely interested. Take me with you. Save me
from the terrors of Zaraysk. Take me away from this place.
“I
don’t know,” I find myself saying. “I don’t have any experience as a model.”
The
woman smiles. “Well, come and see, you’ve got the body for it. You might be
surprised by how well you do.”
She
gives me a card with all the information on auditions and I smile before
walking away. Tears prick but I push them back. No crying, not where people can
see. I didn’t realize until now there was any sort of desire for something
other than escape. But I want this bad.
I want to be a model, I want to be loved, I want the freedom. I want it all and
I don’t see how I could ever get it. My father will never let me go to Moscow.
I’ll never get there. There’s just no way.
That
night, I do something stupid. I mention Moscow to my father. I try to tell him
that it would be good for me, that it would be an opportunity for better money,
that it makes sense. He wouldn’t hear
it.
When
I go to room tonight, it’s with sore beaten muscles and a split lip. It’s enough
to send me over the edge.
I
pack the essentials, plus anything a potential model might need. Makeup, hair
products, clothing, all the money I’ve been saving for years. I grab the keys
to my father’s black Yamaha. He’s not going to be needing it anytime soon. He
got so drunk tonight. He won’t even think I’m gone until tomorrow night, let
alone notice that I stole his motorcycle.
I
swing my bag onto my back before getting onto the bike. With a rev of the
engine, I’m gone.
*****Okay, only one more short story to go! Look for THE CHILD February 27th!******
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