| abstract | - I jump as someone knocks on my bedroom door. "Margaret? Honey? Everything okay in there?" My father. I can't let him see the journal; he'd throw me into a shrink's room again. "Everything's fine, Dad," I call back, quickly slapping the covers together and slipping my journal under my open Algebra 2 textbook. He opens the door anyway, poking his head inside. I pretend I didn't expect him to walk in, raising my head and trying to look vaguely distracted. He glances around my room, then his eyes meet with mine. He smiles. I smile back. It's just for show, though; I can feel sweat on my back. Please don't walk in and start a conversation... Don't go searching again... He steps inside, taking my smile as an invitation. "Whatcha doin'?" he asks, standing behind me. "I'm working on Math, Dad," I reply, turning back to my textbook and the open spiral under it. "Goodness, Algebra 2? Used to call that Algebra 3 and 4, back when I was in school." "I know, Dad. You've told me before." "So I have," he says, chuckling. I feel his hands fall upon my shoulders, and then I feel him kiss the top of my head. Affectionate, but I know he's looking around, searching for things out of order. "Well, just checking on you," he says. His hands leave my shoulders, and I hear his muffled footsteps shuffle over to the door. I look up. "Thanks, Dad," I say, though I don't fully mean it. He looks at me with the same smile on his face. "No problem, sweetie." And he walks back down the hall. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Nothing bad happened, and nothing provoked another psychiatric session. I pull my journal out from beneath the textbook, opening it and flipping it to the last page I wrote in. Suddenly the journal is yanked from my hands. I jump up and grab at it, but the hand holding it keeps it high above where my fingers can reach; I'm screaming, telling her to give it back... "Well, well, now," my big sister says maliciously. "Let's see what little Miss Crazy just wrote down." "'Lane, I swear, if you don't give me that back," I yell, struggling to reach for my journal held hostage in my six-foot one sister's hand. "What are you gonna do? You're five-foot exactly, and half my weight." "And half your waist," I say, still jumping. "Hmph. Maybe I'll just burn it," she says, staring down at me, grinning. I stop jumping, and glare at her. "'Lane, give me back my journal," I growl, trying to keep my tongue in check. "Speak for yourself," she says, spitting in my face. I wipe the saliva from my eyes, and then see her opening it out of my reach... "NO!" I scream, slamming my head into her stomach. We both tumble onto the bed, and I throw my fists at her face. Empty gesture, since she's the one who's taking multiple martial arts classes along with wrestling and boxing at school. She easily blocks my punches, and throws me onto the other side of the bed; before I can recover, she sends one fist at my temple. Stars explode, clouding my vision... "Elane! What are - get off your sister!" My father screams. As they yell at each other, I struggle to see; stars are still flying in and out of my vision, and I can't sit up, the room is spinning so much... The two of them quiet down, and I slowly struggle to my knees, shaking my head to chase the stars away. When I open my eyes... "DAD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Dad is reading my journal, and my big sister is looking at me with a smug expression. Dad doesn't look happy. "You're going into the shrink's office again," my sister hisses at me. "You're gonna get pills, and then they're gonna throw you in the psycho ward..." "Elane. Enough," My father says, glancing up from my journal. "Give me back my journal," I say, reaching out for my journal, trying to take it from Dad before he can finish. He steps back, out of my reach. And, my big sister being the bitch that she is, jumps on me, pinning me on the bed. "How about I drool in your ear," my sister mocks, leaving her mouth open. My father looks up again. "Elane, get off of her and don't be so immature." How can he be so calm, when she was beating me to a pulp ten seconds ago?!? "Make me," my sister retorts, leaning more of her 160 pound body onto my smaller 109 pound frame. "Get OFF of me!" I yell at my sister, struggling to free a limb, just one appendage, to get back at her. "Jeeze, sorry," she says, letting go of me. I guess I didn't mention that my tongue doesn't work near so well on people in my family, huh? Dad snaps the journal closed. My sister and I both turn to look at him; his expression is one of fear, and of anger. "You... you killed the mortician?" He asks me, holding up my journal as if he were in a court trial. "Her? Margie-Margie?" my sister coos, looking at me. I hate that nickname. "You?" she says to me. "You killed the mortician? Bullshit." My father doesn't even notice Elane's choice of words. I glance between the two of them, unsure of what to say. My sister's smile slowly fades. "You're kidding me, right?" she says, turning to our father. "Where did you come up with that idea?" My father turns to her, and gestures to the journal. "It's in here. It's in that entry you showed me; she talks about her killing the mortician." My sister looks at me, still talking to Dad. "You're joking, right?" My father doesn't answer Elane. Instead, he says, "Margaret, we're going to the psychiatrist, right now." "NO!" I shout, sending my sister jumping. "Yes we are," my father says coolly. "NO!" I shout again, "You are NOT taking me back to those idiots! I'm not mentally ill, Dad," I say, calming down a bit from venting, "I'm just...different in a way they don't understand. Nobody understands." "Honey," my father says quietly, "What you've wrote in here is very disturbing. We are going, whether you like it or not." Out of the corner of my eye I see my sister throw a smirk at me. "I'm not going anywhere," I say sternly, and then remember my tongue. Before I can say anything more, my sister laughs. "You're going wherever you DON'T want to go!" She then grabs my wrist, and begins pulling me towards the door. Next thing I know, my sister's lying crumpled in my closet, my father planting my face into the blanket and spanking me as hard as he can, my skirts up over my waist... Please, make the pain stop... "Dad, stop it," I say into the bed. He keeps hitting me, each slap stinging my rear and sending shockwaves up my spine and down my legs... Please, make the pain stop... I twist my head to the side, tears streaming down my face... I've never been spanked this hard... "Dad, please stop!" He doesn't stop; instead, he wrenches my head up, planting a knee square between my shoulder blades, and he starts beating the back of his hand against my head. Stars are flying in and out again, exploding and clouding my vision... I can barely register a couple tear drops on my bare shoulder. "Dad, stop!" I choke out. He suddenly lets go, and I collapse onto the bed, crying. He's not hitting me anymore, but the shame... Oh God I can feel his shame, and mine... "Oh God, Margaret honey, I'm so sorry..." "Go die in a hole!" I yell at him through my tears and hiccups. Only when I stop crying do I realize my mistake. I did say that my tongue doesn't work so well on my family, right? Well, death threats work just fine. That's how I lost my real parents.
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