DAMAGED
Nine-year-old Morgan never saw the cancer coming. By the time it was caught, it was too late. Mother had weeks to live.
A hiss escaped Morgan's tight lips at the pressure of the makeshift ice pack against her swollen shut, mottled eye.
Dear Father was once the pinnacle of her enclosed bubble, always laughing and smiling. Father was happy. Father was loving. A man of many aspects that centered on Morgan. Memories of Father tossing her into the air, staying up late to talk about the newest cop reality show, sleeping curled between each other on downed feathers, and bedtime stories of dragons and knights.
Memories were all there was of her happiness.
Sometime between grief and denial, Father's fists turned into weapons against Morgan's pubescent body. At first, the abuse was simple: a bruising pinch underneath an armpit, a mighty middle-fingered thump against the inside of a lip, an open fist punch against a cushioned kidney; unseen. Father was always careful to keep his transgressions between them and the brittle walls they still called home. Then, the year Morgan turned thirteen, it all changed. Father became even more violent. Quicker to rage. His wrath was a furnace of never-ending hatred. Each event, every punishment, was more brutal than the last. Her body turned frail and withered with each passing year.
It didn't matter if outsiders could see the bruises, the busted lips, the black eyes; as long as Father catered to his inner demons, Morgan lived to see another day, even if that day revolved around bandages and numbing agents. The last time she tried to escape, Ms. Comes called the police, who found her huddled over burned pancakes at the truck diner five miles down the road. It didn't matter to them how purple her face was or the fact she pissed herself when they shoved her in the back of the cruiser and escorted her home. Father thanked the kind men before locking her in the broken deep freezer behind the house for two days in August. There were a few visits afterward from the town's social workers, but Father's sly tongue and caressing hands dissuaded them, women and men alike.
Muffled voices carried heavy on the stale air before the front door slammed. The faded, dust-coated picture of Mother on the wall in Morgan's bedroom shook; it ground against the rusted nail tilted against the cracked drywall, releasing a myriad of tiny wails. It was the one thing Father allowed her to keep after Mother's death. Everything else was turned to ash in the backyard burn pit.
Morgan's eye dragged to the small cracked window in her bathroom, following the heavy-set woman in floral print Father escorted. Warm smiles and chittered laughter erupted between them. Father's hand glided to the small of the woman's back, a gesture reserved for lovers.
Two months ago, Morgan's chemistry teacher reported her bruised appearance to the guidance counselor; dear Father removed her from school after breaking every finger with his brick hammer.
The woman glanced toward Morgan's prison with a smile and waved at Father before getting into her vehicle and driving away. Father's muddied gaze whipped to the window, a crass smile crested his features. Once again, Father avoided detection. Again, the door slammed. Mother's picture fell, her existence shattered into the shallow dust grave.
"Morgan Anne, bring your ass down here right now!" Father bellowed behind the shuttering and slamming of cabinets.
Morgan tossed the ice pack into the dingy sink. The clink made her flinch, and she braced her bandaged hands against its lip, looking at her tattered reflection in the dull, scratched mirror. Morgan's porcelain skin was a drunken painter's canvas—petaled greens smattered with iridescent purples chased by stumbling haloed yellows decorated her concave curves. Oceanic eyes stared back empty as Father's scattered liquor bottles. Morgan was battered. Morgan was beaten. Fractured. Morgan's flesh was a never-ending void of pain.
"Girl, if I have to come and get you, I promise you'll regret it."
Morgan shook her head, wincing at the rapid movement. If she made Father wait any longer, she was liable not to survive the night. "Okay, Morgan. Remember, two days. That's all you have to survive. Two days and you're free," she said to her soulless reflection. She grabbed the frayed hair tie from the top of the blood-splattered Irish Spring and tossed her rat's nest into a messy bun. Morgan learned that keeping her hair grouped together made being dragged less painful, and she was less likely to be balder from Father shaking her head like a broken doll.
"Morgan!"
"Coming, Father," she said. Morgan slunk into the hallway, destroyed by years of termites and disrepair, leaving heavy dents and shattered boards scattered along the floor. Morgan's feet avoided each one with the skill of a trained thief, making her approach to the dimly lit kitchen silent. She made noise on the last few steps because sneaking up on Father never ended in her favor. Last time, he hung her with his belt from the basement beams, leaving enough room for her lungs to survive off nothing more than shallow breaths while starving for eight days and seven nights. When Father released her from punishment, Morgan was pure ash coated in acrid urine and feces.
"Where'd you put my damn bottle of Iliad Whiskey, you stupid girl? It was here last night." Heavy pans clanged around the tight space. Father's massive hands dug through every cabinet in a frenzy.
"Father, you drank it." Morgan pointed to the overstuffed trash can where the opened bottleneck peeked through. A hummingbird battered underneath her skin, fluttering harder with every rapid inhale.
He snapped up, slamming the cabinet off the hinge before walking over and kicking the trash can; the bottle clanked, rolling across the floor, unaware of the demon tracking its journey through the kitchen. When the bottle knocked against the oven warming drawer, Father walked over, snatched the bottle, his meat hook hands choking the life from the glass neck. "So you're telling me I drank all of this?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Morgan knew she fucked up. She never spoke when he was like this. Standing stiff as a board, Morgan forced the boulder resting in her throat down. "Father, I—" Glass exploded against the wall, burrowing into her skin with its jagged shards. Her heart roared. Rapid palpitations turned war drum beating her chest into submission. Every breath a symphony of fear. Of uncertainty. Morgan braced, her body coiled so tight that a finger's flick would shatter her, scattering her in the wind.
"You fucking bitch! You drank it, didn't you?" spittle flew from his mouth, "no good, just like your godsdamn mother." Father's chest heaved in fury far beyond anything Morgan had witnessed.
Morgan's hands became shields.
It didn't matter.
The kitchen jerked on its axis. Her face fell to the yellowed linoleum, a scream lodged deep in her throat, and her scalp burned as if coated in raging flames. Morgan wrapped her hands around her head to lessen the impending damage, but Father's steel toe boot caught the thick underside of her chin, kicking her into the decrepit island. Its wooden frame splintered around her sunken body. Black orbs danced across her vision; every inhale doused in acid. Each breath sawed. Morgan struggled to control the wracking sobs that broke free. With trembling arms, she pushed herself up. A mighty backhand tumbled her to the floor. Stale copper exploded along her tastebuds. A small tooth skittered into the molding. A corset cinched her lungs. Gasp after gasp, yet no oxygen filled them.
"You stupid, stupid whore!" Father's face contorted. His massive hands gripped her hair. Morgan's head was a merry-go-round of inconsolable pain. "You worthless, miserable, little cunt!" Her head ricocheted off the floor. Another tooth. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" His heavy boot bore down on her bloodied face, blurring her vision.
Morgan's mouth split, distorted with blood, her blunt teeth sawed her tongue poking out from the pressure of the steel-toe boot crushing her skull. Alone. Trapped against the floor. Her severed tongue dropped with a wet slosh. A slow, reverberating crack echoed in the hollows of her eardrums, wrenching a garbled, fluid-filled scream from her throat. Thoughts slowed while the kitchen tunneled and twirled about, unhindered by the violence within its tar-stained walls. Her pulse roared, the ebb and flow of high tide crashing against a coast's alcove. Chested screams rent throughout the barren kitchen, interrupted by bursts of sneaker rubber fighting for escape. The cracking crested, seating itself deep within her fractured soul.
Featherlight touches brushed against Morgan's face, her nose scrunched up in protest. A soft laugh echoed around her, spreading its warmth around her frigid body. Morgan's body rolled away from the annoyance, only to be greeted once more by delicate tapping on the bridge of her nose. Lilac and chamomile floated around her, settling on the back of her tongue in a gentle flavor.
"Happy birthday, my sweet baby girl. I love you."
With closed eyes, an ear-to-ear smile spread. "I love you too, mom."
"It's time to go now, baby girl."
***
Incessant beeping drew Morgan's consciousness forward. Bleach drowned her senses. The beeping grew faster, urgent. Heavy pressure and euphoria blended into a sweet melancholy of relaxation, but her eyes wouldn't open. Her limbs were stone weights as she struggled to lift them to her face; the muscles protested each stretch, every lift, going higher and higher until fingertips caressed rough patches of fabric over her eyes. They continued, following every path, every turn, every cross-section. Ash and fire coat her throat; small eruptions follow with every swallow. A wounded groan rolled through her. The slight squeal of a door followed by slow steps startled Morgan.
"Ms. Tawn, my name is Angelina Brecker. I'm a social worker. You survived a harrowing experience and are recovering in St. Mary's Hospital. Here, let me help you."
Soft hands wrapped around Morgan's heavy limbs and placed them on her chest. Heat burrowed around her eyes, and the steady tear of tape pulled from tight skin mellowed her confusion. Bright light assaulted the backs of her lids. Gentle pressure caressed her eyes, coaxing them to open, yet they refused. Delicate undertones of coffee and hibiscus fanned her overstimulated skin. Morgan wanted to talk, but every time she tried, lava punched her tongue.
"Do you remember what happened?" Mrs. Brecker asked.
A half-cocked nod was all Morgan could muster in response. Then, Mrs. Brecker released a chest-heaving sigh and told the story of how she came to the hospital and what happened to Father. Morgan could do nothing to stop the flood of tears that leaked through the glued cracks of her eyes. After everything, Father saved the daughter he once loved. The daughter that, somewhere deep within the demon, still loved.
Mother's death destroyed him.
But now they would be together.
Happy. Loving. Whole.
***
Forgiveness was a fickle thing. After five years, Morgan never understood why Father did what he did. Even though he took a piece of her before leaving, she couldn't find it in herself to be angry.
Pale lilacs wrapped tight in crinkled plastic lie across the weathered grave of her parents. Morgan stared into the graying winter sky before landing back on Mother and Father, a note held tight within her fingers. She bent down and laid the letter face up beneath the lilacs. I forgive you, and I love you. Happy birthday, Dad. The calloused palm of her hand wiped the stray tear away as she stood, cinching her peacoat tighter against her filling frame. Then, with one last glance and a smile, she turned from her parents and began the trek back to the car where her fiancé waited.
When I wrote this short story, I was sitting on my back porch wondering about a lot of things regarding life. Moreso, my own. I was worn threadbare and stress would have been a happy place mentally compared to where I was. So, I put my emotions into words. And although this story is incredibly graphic, and for some, possibly triggering — it gave me breath.
Breath to trust that everything will work out exactly how it’s meant to.
Regardless of the turmoil that arises during the journey.
And that breath…
Gave me faith.
