Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1381809-Sour-Milk
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Drama · #1381809
Child abuse,Inspired by a true story and the repot of the scene at her death.
Sour Milk

From my chair I wake to the smell of the bakery Shoppe down the block. Each mornin this is my alarm clock. It's a pleasant warning, that morning has risen.

My belly is growlin again.

I can picture all the goodies in the bakery window. They have all kinds, even fancy ones called 'Crumb Buns', Mama got me one once.

I can picture the crumbs under the shelf, the ones they are just gonna sweep into the dustpan and throw away.

My mouth waters at the thought of one of those crumbs.

I am stiff and achin as I reach for Suzie, my pal. Suzie listens to me when I am cryin. She is a raggedy doll with one eye and a black hole for the other. We match.

I just can't seem to get hold of her today. I guess my arm is too weak. The wood is cutting into my neck, as I try to change positions to inch just a little closer to snag her left foot.

I sigh as my arm flops down, hitting hard on the edge of the chair. A tear comes out of my right eye and falls to my lip. No time for cryin, I lick it up like a dog getin the last bit of water out of a bowl after a long run in the park.

Oh how good water would taste right now.

I sigh again and resort to listening to the sounds I can hear. Delivery trucks, a dog barkin in the distance.  The neighborhood is waking up.  It must be close to closin time. I tense at the thought and almost pee myself, dreading the hour He returns.

You better not pee yourself girl, what are you an animal?

I feel like an animal.

I am six, I think. I really don't know much about numbers, but I think that's what I heard them say I was. I know I am not an animal. I have seen animals on the TV, like the ones in the zoo. They cage animals in, to keep them in their place.

I am tied to this chair like an animal. This is my cage.

Can't be trusted to stay in a bed, while the man goes to work. I might burn somethin, or feed myself up all fat like my Mama.

My body is extra sore today. He shaked me good and hard last night, slammin me into the wood of the chair.

His face is strange when he ties the rope on so hard I can hardly breath. Pushing my face back and smilin he talked right in my face, "Girl, you got to sit on the chair like a lady and just sit. You hear me girl! You wait here and don't you get no idea bout playin with that stupid Suzie doll. You touch that doll and I'll rip her other eye out! You just sit."

I blinked, swallowed hard and squeaked out, "Yes sir". I wanted to ask why I can't be tied in the bed? Or maybe he could put a little blanket on me. It gets cold on this chair all night.

I thought better of askin, as he stood up and flicked his cigarette in my face. Last time I asked, he burned me real bad.

As he walked down the stairs I heard him yellin back, "No asking for food. No asking for drink. No asking for nothin. You just sit. I know what you need and I know when to give it to you."

I don't think he knows nothin, bout nothin. All he knows is hurtin. I don't think nobody knows nothin about me hurtin. If somebody knew, they would get me. I still wonder where my Mama is? Bet he hurt her real bad.

Steps are gettin louder.

I blink my eyes real big. Not supposed to be sleepin, just sittin like a lady.

Door slams REAL hard. Door slammin hard is always bad. Somethin bad musta happened to him, and I get to pay for it.

I see him put a brown paper bag on the table. He throws a look at me like he wants to kill me. Like the time he choked me so hard I saw white light. Like when I woke up tied to my chair, on my face, with a table on top a my chair.

He comes at me and I turn my face to soften the blow.

Spittin his bad breath at me, "What you lookin at girl!  Did I tell you to look at me?  No, I didn't tell you nothin. So you just sit there till I tell you somethin!  I don't work hard to come home to you lookin at me, like a little Bitch!  I see you eyein that bag. What, you thirsty girl?"

I just look up at him with my eyebrows talkin, like you know... confused. My eyebrows are saying, "I don't know what to say?” I want to lift my hands up to my face, to stop the next blow, but if I do then he hits me harder.

Next thing I know I am on my face with that hard chair on my neck. Somethin popped on my side. I take a breath and I feel it, like a hot knife pokin me each time I let air in.

I feel like I am on a roller coaster ride. My chair spins up, as I slam to a stop. He is in my face again. This time he has a knife. I am sure he is going to stick me. He is going to stick me right were the burnin in my ribs is, but he just laughs at me.

Laughin is all he does, as I watch him cut off the rope.

Scared I run to the corner and cover my head, putting as much of me against the walls as I can. The walls help stop some of the blows.

A little bit a pee comes down my leg. I cringe waiting for the bad night he had, to come out on me.

Instead, I hear the brown paper bag.

I peak through my laced fingers to see him sit on my chair and open the bag. He pulls out a carton of milk. One of those little ones, the kind kids get in school. He reads one side of it then laughs, "Little old, but it'll do."

The milk carton appears at my feet. I look at it frozen in place.

Another growl from the man, "Pick it up girl!  Drink it, drink all of it!"

My fingers are shakin, as I try to pry it open. I can’t get it. I am so nervous, I chew it open to drink it fast like he says.

I take two gulps, and then the thickness chokes me.

I look up and see him laughin.

He stands up over me pushin his hand on my head, "Drink it Bitch! You wanted a drink didn't ya? Then DRINK it!"

I swallow the rest, chunks and all. My stomach turns and I just can't help it, I throw it all back out. It flies out so fast I don't see it goin at him. All I see is white chunks on his boots.

He lifts me up by my neck and throws me so hard I land on the wall over the table. My little body crashes down and I see the white light again.

Next I am being kicked in the stomach. I tumble like a rag doll across the room.

Things are flyin and crashin and all I can do is pray.

"Please take me." Those are the last words I get to say.

The police report indicates my body was found on the floor. I was emaciated, so thin you could see my hips, spine, ribs and knee bones. I was beaten to death for apparently wanting food. A broken chair with a cut rope was next to me. The object appears to have been used to land the final blows to my head, causing my death.

* Approximately 2.03 children in 100,000 die each year of abuse in the United States. 1,479 deaths were reported in 2004. This is the result of a study published in 2006. I mention this, as it is 2008 and data comes post the real facts. The death rate is not going down, but rising, due to programs and investigations geared at exposing child abuse.

I hope this story inspires you to reach out to the innocent. Volunteer, donate to a charitable organization, or at the very least keep your eyes open to those around you and report anything you suspect as abuse or neglect. Calling to report may just save a life.
© Copyright 2008 NurseWriter (lorriern at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1381809-Sour-Milk