Acting

A girl no more than 16 sat on the floor of her living room and rubbed her newly bruised arm. It wasn't the only bruise that had developed on her fragile skin. She stood. The smell of blood lingered in the air and she walked to her bathroom, grabbing a towel as she walked past the closet. She closed the bathroom door and ran the hot water. She stripped of her clothes and stepped in the shower. She hissed as the water hit her still sensitive flesh.

She was so tired of these beatings. Her father had gotten it into his head that it was her fault that her mother had died of cancer. And that was three years ago. He would always drink until life was a blur while she studied her heart out at school. It was her job to support him. To make sure he was happy. That he would never die.

And what did she get in return?

An enemy of a father who despised her living soul. A father who would beat her till she bled or was knocked unconscious. Then after he was done, he would collapse on the couch and sleep his pain away and she would silently make him dinner and continue her school work.

If things got too out of hand she would have to call in sick for work. Her part time job at a small diner where she was barely paid enough to pay the bills and feed her abusive dad. She starved most of the time to keep him happy. She could almost never come up with enough food for the both of them.

As she washed her hair some of the shampoo dripped into her eyes. She quickly rinsed her eyes with water but it wouldn’t keep from the salted liquid falling from her eyes. Soon the shower smelled of salt water, reminding her of the ocean air she used to love so much.

She missed the beach so much. But with school, work, taking care of her father, and having to tend to her injuries, there was never enough time to go.

The salt tinged air soothed her slightly. She tried to remember the last time she had cried or even shown any real emotion. She was an actress in the world out side of the house and her friends never saw past it. No one did. Not the students, the teachers or even those guidance counselors who claimed they were trained to know how she felt.

She reached for the soap and started to wash the rest of herself. It got into some of her bandages and stinged the fairly deep cuts underneath. She sighed. The stinging was nothing compared to the pain she’s had to endure the past two years. In fact compared to some of her major beatings, the stinging may have even felt... good.

She turned the steaming water off and grabbed her towel. She wiped stray water droplets from her face before wrapping it around her slim figure.

She walked to her room across the hall leaving wet foot prints on the hard-wood floors. She quietly went into the cramped bedroom and shut the door. She pulled out a pair of ripped faded jeans and a tattered light blue shirt. She remembered when she dressed in nice clothes that had no rips or fades. But when her mother was diagnosed she sold what clothes she could back to the stores in order to support her family.

Age 12 and she was already supporting her depressed father and sick mother.

She never blamed her mother. Only herself. She had thought that being the only child meant that you had to quit being a kid early and grow up. She regrets not experiencing her childhood to its fullest. But she felt it was too late to go back. She dressed herself and looked at her features in the cracked full length mirror. Her eyes were green and her hair was of a true red head. And her face was perfectly clear. No scratches or pimples of any kind.

She hated that.

Her father never touched her face. No hits or cuts. She looked too much like her mother. Oh how she hated that he would refuse to even touch her face but tear at the rest of her just because it reminded him of her mother. She hated her face. She was reminded of her dead mother every time.

She walked out her bedroom door and to the living room. She grabbed her purse and stepped over the body that lay on the ground, to the front door.

She opened the door and looked back at the corpse of her abusive father. She smirked.

She regretted a lot of things in her life... but not this. No more pain. No more suffering. Just a bit more acting. She would go to the police station and confess her little sob story. Saying how she had no choice and that she didn’t want to do it... but he was going to try to hurt her face. And she couldn’t have that. Not since it reminded her sooo much of her dead mother. Her mother who had died tragically of cancer. She took her keys out of her purse and went to open the car.

She knew what was coming next. Her dead father had watched a lot of cop shows. She would go to the police. Be questioned. Watch as they have an investigation. She would have a believable confession and then sob her heart out. And when it was all over and she was placed in a place that would “take good care of her” and she would finally be able to go to the beach and live for what youth she had left.

Some would ask if she knew what she was doing, especially since she is so confident that they won’t see through her. But she knew they wouldn’t. After all...

She was an actress.