Hell is a Place Called HomeMature

Based on the song Runaway Love by Ludaris, the story follows Lisa, Nicole and Erica, who "think that hell is a place called home."

'Hey, bitch, outta the way,' spits a huge, leering man with missing front teeth and a string vest. I don't recognise this one, but thats no suprise. It's almost always a different man every night anyway.

I don't look the man in the face, but stare past him at my mothers unconsious figure on the floor. She looks almost peacefull, sprawled casually on the dusty floor.

She could be described as sleeping happily, if there wasn't blood running down her forehead and spreading slowly through the grey carpet, forming a scarlet halo around her head.

'What you staring at, kid?' Roars the man, shoving me in the shoulder. I don't react, don't look at him. That's what he wants, what they always want. A plucky little fighter.

He smells bad, like month old fish left rotting in a side alley, and dirt cheap wine. Although, he's probably been sleeping in a fish filled side alley most of his life anyway.

What does it even matter? I think wearily, as he yells, shoves, hits me round the head in a drunken rage.

Why do I bother? I muse thoughtfully, as my head hits the floor with a thump that reverbarates round my head. I want to be sick, spit out the blood from my mouth, stumble into my bedroom and collapse, but the man is still here.

He staggers round for a while, before rifling clumsily through my mothers dresser, bringing out a couple of dollar notes. 'Bitch,' is his final remark, as he spits in my mothers face and slams the door.

Blood is trickling into my eyes. I close them, and feel the sticky warmth running through my eyelashes, and I want to wipe it away, but my arm is crushed under my body. My mind spins dizzyingly, and I gratefully fall into unconsiousness.

Sometimes I wish I would never wake up. Every evening is the same, although some hit hard, and some hit softer, but for longer. I don't know which I prefer. I don't pick favourites, unlike the other 9 year olds in my class. I just want to be able to close my arms and drift up and up and up, out of hell and into the soft arms of God in heaven.  

The End

13 comments about this story Feed