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A bottle flew out of her father's hand at the wall and landed on target with a smash. The noise was miles away through the closed door but sounded so close. The walls didn’t block out the pain, or the screams of her mum. Or Rey’s father’s swearing in response. Was this the last straw?
It was funny to think that their voices once soothed her to sleep. Her parents had a young love. 18 and 20. Rey’s dad was a sweetheart with anger issues that grew into a violent temper. Her mother was so beautiful. Rey’s childhood lens hid the bruises from view. Her mum was so naive, she sang and danced in the early years of Rey’s life. That was when she still had happiness. A happiness that was long gone by the time Rey turned 10.
Their house was too small for the personality of her father. His anger and violent attitude. His drinking problem. Was it her father who ruined the family? Or her mother? Rey’s father would have everyone believe it was her. A dirty whore in his eyes. Rey never knew who to listen to sometimes. But as she got older she realised how abusive he really was.
Rey took her first sip of alcohol only a few months after she first took a blade to her skin. She always thought her parents' behaviour would deter her from the drink but the numbing feeling was so addictive. And it wasn’t as if her parents kept the bottles locked away. Rey still remembers her father with his slurring words encouraging her to take a sip of beer when she was 5.
The walls of Rey’s room always felt so small while her parents were fighting. The roof seemed to come down on top of her pushing the air from her lungs. It didn’t help that on a whim, in an emotional moment, Rey had painted her walls black. Her room was a black hole of teenage emotions and family trauma. Tears racked her body as she curled in on herself. Only cutting kept her sane. Nobody even noticed. Was this the final straw?
Her cutting was hypocritical of her fear of injury. The ever-increasing fear that one day her father's anger would be directed towards her, not her mother. To Rey, it was sad that she felt no need to help her mum. She didn’t know if it was because of the words her father used when talking about her mum. Or Rey’s resentment towards her mum for never taking them away from her father. For never standing up for herself. Was this the final straw?
Rey thought she was broken. She never seemed the same as other kids her age. The weird kid. She always wished for someone to protect her but no one ever came. Peers ignored her. Too small, too plain, too sad, too much trouble to bother with. No one wanted to be around the sad kid. Most kids with divorced parents had closure and the kids with happy parents were normal. Just like Rey never had the courage to make friends, Rey’s mum didn’t have the courage to leave her father. Was this the final straw?
Memories were not Rey’s friends either. Each night she lay in bed thinking and thinking and thinking. Thinking of something her dad said to insult her years ago. And an embarrassing moment from school. Her cutting started to calm the thoughts. To protect her mind she injured her skin. Then that wasn’t enough, so she tried a pill.
Rey didn’t know where they came from. The medicines in her house were never locked up. Like with the alcohol, her parents probably were too busy arguing to think of that. So with easy access and a fussy emotional state Rey started taking them. Was this the final straw?
Good dreams were Rey’s favourite release. Although it was a gamble between good dreams and nightmares at night, sleep was the best time. Her good dreams bleed into daydreams, a distraction. Rey invented stories to save herself. Whole new worlds, love interests, wars, friends, family.
She invented a new persona for herself. An unlikely hero. A loner with a big destiny. She created friends that just wanted to help her. And best of all she created Kylo. Her enemy with a sad past and a path for redemption. Rey wanted redemption too.
Her schoolwork fell behind. Pills, blades and alcohol filled her life. And dreams so many dreams.
Her final day was also a first. The first time her father hit her. He’d been drinking. And gambling. The apps on his phone had made gambling easier. On this occasion, he had lost money.
“Come here slut”
“You're a woman now”
“Will you stand up for yourself or are you like your mother?”
Slap.
Pain.
But not as much as she has been feeling for the last years of her life.
Was this the final straw?
That night as her room constricted upon her, she took her blade and started making slices. Up one leg and up the other. To the thighs. The stomach. Her arms. Her chest. Her face. The red glistened on her body. it flowed down creating a tickling feeling.
So much blood. It dripped from her skin to the dirty carpet. In a house full of violence, who could be fucked to do the cleaning? Not her.
Finally the pill bottle. Whenever one emptied she found a full one to replace it. It didn’t matter what it did, as long as it took the pain away. This bottle was full. These pills were strong.
Rey started with one at a time. Fully absorbing her choices and where she was headed. Heaven or hell for a broken girl. Anywhere was better than here. She moved to taking a few at a time and then the bottle was empty. Another empty bottle.
Her tears dry on her face leaving salty residue. Rey doesn’t feel the stinging of sliced limbs as she lies back on her bed. She floats through the ceiling up into the night sky.
When she is gone her parents wonder why. Why didn’t they see? How didn’t they notice? They cry but they never leave their old ways. The fighting continues. Never-ending. Does anything even have a purpose?