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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/899360-A-Call-For-Help
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Parenting · #899360
The story of a girl who finds the courage to tell someone her father is abusive.
It’s been years since he hit me, so why am I doing this now? I feel queasy as I walk into Room 109. I bite down on my lip, hoping that it will distract me from the task that lay before me. Gradually, the pungent taste of blood seeps into my mouth. I let go of my lip. The aroma of old books fills the air in and around the English Resource Room and the Reading/Writing Lab. I know that my mind will associate the smell with this day for the rest of my life.

Mr. Ebner greets me and leads me to the phone. I sit in a chair which faces the window. The sky, sprinkled with wispy cirrus clouds, is a brilliant shade of sapphire. The sky meets a row of trees which are finally blossoming after months of having to use all their energy resources just to survive the bitter winter nights. I can see the muddy football field and the green and gold stands where the paint is beginning to chip.

I attempt to avoid eye contact with Mr. Ebner as I hear his footsteps approach my chair to dial the code necessary to call an outside line. Through my long, tousled, brunette locks I could see Mr. Ebner’s blue shirt and khaki pants heading away from my seat. My heart sinks. Though having him stand next to me makes me nervous, I wish he would stay, for I feel so alone. My clammy fingers tremble as I begin to dial. One eight hundred… I pause. My heart is beating more loudly than the entire drum section in my old school’s band. Glancing over at Mr. Ebner I can see his chest rising and falling with every breath he takes, and I realize I have forgotten to exhale for at least thirty seconds. I let the cool, dry air enter my lungs and continue to dial. Seven… nine… two… I barely press the keys. My damp fingers nearly slip off the keys which are warm and smooth to the touch. Eight… six… one… zero. I am finally making my call for help. I hear the fuzzy ring of the phone on the other end of the line. There is no turning back now. The ringing stops. The woman on the other end of the line begins to speak in a nonchalant tone, “Hello, you have reached the Division of Youth and Family Services.”
© Copyright 2004 Andi @ Cirrutopia (cirrutopia at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/899360-A-Call-For-Help