Ugly Read online

  UGLY

  Copyright © 2015 Margaret McHeyzer

  ISBN: 978-0-9943547-3-0 epub

  ISBN: 978-0-9943547-4-7 paperback

  All rights reserved. This book is copyrighted. Apart from the fair purpose of private study, research or review as permitted by the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced without written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Interior Formatting by Tami Norman, Integrity Formatting

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  For Help

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Margaret McHeyzer

  It’s days like today I wish I was dead.

  “Lily Anderson, you get your ugly ass out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after you,” Daddy screams.

  He’s so angry. I knew the moment I heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my bedroom, lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so hard the windows in my room shook.

  And then I knew, I knew I was in for it.

  “Lily Anderson!” he yells again.

  As soon as I heard him yell I ran to my hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway, wedged as far into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.

  “Lily Anderson!” he shouts. I can hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain he’s going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s coming.

  I close my eyes tight, scrunching them up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear him.

  “I swear to God; if I have to find you, you will not sit for a month.”

  My knees are folded into my chest. I’m trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets I’m here. I’m rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.

  School is safe. School is safe. School is safe. I keep repeating the mantra because in a few short hours I’ll be back at school. Maybe tomorrow I can go to the library after school, stay there until it closes and then sneak in after Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.

  It was never like this before.

  I’m twelve years old and I can remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years ago. It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this house.

  Well, before Mom died, and not a day since.

  Mom died when I was nine. I don’t remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how ugly I am. How life would be better if I were taken away from them. How I’ll never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.

  Sometimes I dream happy things. Like me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a picnic. The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d eat yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade lemonade. We’d spend hours outside, laughing and talking and just having fun. Mom would tell me how pretty I am, and how much she loved me. She would play with my hair, braid it, and then we’d go and pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad would smile and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park, trying to catch the clouds.

  I love those dreams, and I hold onto them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom like that, and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to tell me how ugly and useless I am.

  I feel him walking around the house. The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his footsteps come through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter and try and breathe as quietly as I can.

  Please go away, Daddy. Please go away.

  My heart is beating so fast. My hands are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think about what’s going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.

  Shhh, it’s so quiet. The only sound is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a whisper, not a rattle…nothing.

  Maybe Daddy’s left. Maybe he’s gone to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s left...forever.

  I take a deep breath and just relax for a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.

  Slowly I take my hands down from my ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at me. I can’t hear him at all.

  Gradually, I begin to unscrunch my eyes from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But something’s not right. There’s light coming into the closet.

  I don’t even get a chance to open them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my ponytail and yanks.

  “I told you it’d be worse for you if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the closet by my hair.

  I’m desperately trying to hold onto my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying to find traction on the dirty floorboards.

  “Please, Daddy. Please. You’re hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.

  “Then your ugly ass should’ve come when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking worthless, you ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues to drag me toward the family room.

  That’s when he’s most scary. When his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.

  He throws me against the side of the sofa and takes a step back to look at me.

  I look up and can see he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.

  “Sorry, Daddy. Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible.

  “You’re just too fucking stupid, aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to scratch at his chin.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. Tears are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from where he was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.

  “You ugly fuck.” He kicks a boot into my leg.

  The pain is instant and my leg feels like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again, burying my face into my hands.

  But ‘please’ never seems to work.

  Nothing does.

  I’ve just got to take the beatings, because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.

  The principal of my high school pulled me into his office today. He told me with how hard I’ve been studying and all my exam results, I’m looking at graduating high school with a 3.9 GPA. He asked me what I want to study in college,
and where I’m thinking of studying.

  But I know Dad won’t pay for me to go to college. He’s always telling me how stupid I am. His words are always close by, ready to erase any sliver of confidence I may experience.

  “For God’s sake, Lily, you’re probably one of the ugliest and stupidest girls I know,” he often says. It’s usually followed by more slurred insults.

  I’ve heard them for as long as I can remember. I’m seventeen now, and this has been going on for so long. He’s right about one thing, I’m definitely ugly. I have blonde hair that sits limply on my shoulders, and my eyes are more green than brown, but they’re dull and nondescript. Like me. I don’t even know why anyone would want to talk to me, or be friends with me.

  I don’t have friends at school. I can’t look at anyone, if I do they may see the bruises. Not the bruises on my skin, no, those are easily concealed. I mean the bruises hiding deep down inside me. The pain and sadness that’s with me from the moment I wake, to the moment I go to sleep.

  No one talks to me, because, well, I’m ugly. Ugly girls don’t have friends. We simply hide away and try to blend in wherever we can, trying our best to be shadows so no one looks at us, or approaches us.

  Last week as I was walking home from school; there was a boy who is at the bus stop every afternoon, waiting for the bus. He’s been smiling at me. At first I thought he was smiling at the person who got off the bus behind me so I looked away, because really, who’d smile at me?

  The next day he smiled again, and I looked behind me to see who he was smiling at. The girl who followed me is one of the popular girls at school, so I knew it was for her, not me. I’m not pretty and I’m definitely not popular.

  Even the teachers don’t know my name. Most of them have to look at their roll to check. My math and English teachers know my name, but the others don’t. Even though I’m consistently at the top of the class, I still don’t get noticed. Just the way I like it.

  On the third day, when I got off the bus, the boy stood in front of me and said hello. But really, why would he talk to me? I lowered my eyes, clutched my bag to my chest and hurried home. He must want me to do his homework. But I haven’t seen him at school, maybe he goes to another school and wants me to do his work.

  On the fourth day, he stood in front of me again, and said, “Hi, I’m Trent. How are you?” He stuck his hand out for me to take and eagerly waited. But again, I just looked away, put my head down and hurried home.

  That was also the night Dad came home drunk, stumbled inside, came into my room and dragged me out of bed. He grabbed me by my t-shirt and threw me against the wall.

  “It’s all your fault!” he screamed in his tell-tale slur.

  It’s also when I know to shut up, and not cry. Crying never helps, nor does pleading. I just have to take it.

  “You ugly piece of shit. You’re just as dumb as you are ugly. You better start sucking cock ‘cause that’s all you’re ever going to be good for. It’s all your fault,” he yelled again.

  All I could do was cower. I brought my hands over my head, balled my body as small as it would go and protected my head from the kicks, punches and slaps.

  Dad eventually tired and stumbled out of my room down the hall to his bedroom. I would’ve slammed my door if I could, but Dad removed it when I was little.

  I’m not sure how he’s going to react when I tell him Trent tried walking me home today. I got off the bus and Trent was waiting for me. He was holding a flower in his hand and a big, sweet smile for me.

  “You know, eventually one day you’ll have to tell me your name,” he said, walking with me toward home.

  I looked at him sideways, trying to avoid his eyes, but they’re so big and brown I couldn’t help it. “What are you doing?” I ask as I looked around me, making sure Dad didn’t see him.

  “I just want to know your name.” He tried to hand me the flower he was holding, but I shook my head and clutched my bag tighter to my chest. “I’d really like to give you this flower. It’s pretty, just like you.”

  That statement made me laugh quite loudly. I knew Trent was just saying whatever he could because he wanted to use me. “Yeah, okay,” I said, no louder than a whisper.

  “It’s true, I think you’re real pretty,” he said again.

  But by this time I’d already switched off to his attempts to use me. “I’ve got to get home,” I said and ran the rest of the way. When I looked over my shoulder, I half expected Trent to be following me, but he was just standing on the corner, head tilted to the side watching me.

  Now I’m sitting in my room, all of my homework done, and I’m just reading. My favorite book is a play called The Crucible. I’ve read it so many times that the spine is held together by tape and the pages are completely discolored and fragile.

  My stomach rumbles with hunger. I try to ignore the fact I only had a piece of bread for breakfast. Dad doesn’t often bring home groceries. Only when he discovers for himself there’s nothing to eat, does he buy a few bags of groceries.

  Once I told him there was nothing in the fridge or the cupboards and he gave me the back of his hand and told me it’s because I’m a greedy, ugly bitch who eats him out of house and home.

  I get up from my bed and go into the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat. Anything, even a cracker would be better than nothing at all.

  I open all the cupboards and find nothing. In the fridge there’s an orange, but it’s soft and on one side it’s got mold growing on it. I take it out of the fridge and take it over to the kitchen sink. I cut the moldy part off and look to see how the orange is inside. At least it’ll be something in my tummy.

  I set the moldy part aside, because if Dad sees it in the trash, he will get angry that I didn’t eat it and say I’m wasting food. When I eat the half that seems okay, I’ll go bury the spoiled half in the back yard.

  Bringing the orange up to my lips, I dart my tongue out to make sure it’s okay to eat. It smells okay, so I take a small nibble of a segment. It’s not great, but it’s something.

  When I finish, I go down to the back of the yard and quickly dig a hole with my bare hands to bury the evidence before Dad gets home from work.

  Once inside, I scrub and wash my hands, making sure there’s no evidence of what I did. I’ve done this a few times in the past and know how to eat, bury and wash up so Dad has no idea.

  I go back to my room, sit on my bed and pick up my book.

  My mind begins to wander to a time when women were considered dangerous, because they were witches. If I lived in those times, would I be considered a witch too, or would they leave me alone because I’m ugly and stupid?

  “Lily!” I hear my Dad bellow as the front door shuts.

  “Here, Dad,” I say as I come out of my bedroom and stand looking down at my toes.

  “Make me something to eat,” he says, the slur in his speech only slight. “I’m hungry.”

  “We don’t have anything. I looked earlier,” I say in a small voice.

  I keep looking down, refusing to meet his gaze because I’m sure he’ll just yell at me. The seconds tick by, I’m so scared I hold my breath. I’m bracing myself for whatever’s going to happen. He hates being told there’s no food, and hates it even more when I talk.

  “You fat, ugly bitch. Did you eat everything I bought?” I stay still, not moving, not wanting to be on the receiving end of Dad’s wrath. “You’re no good at anything. Spoilt bitch,” he spits before I hear the door slamming shut.

  I let out the breath I was holding, and my heart starts to calm to a normal rate. No words tonight, and no fists either. I walk back into my room and sit on my bed, picking up my ragged copy of The Crucible and get lost in it.

  It’s not until darkness starts to set in, and the temperature drops to a cool kiss on my cheek, I know Dad will return soon and I’d better be asleep. It’s nights like tonight I know the bruises will be on the outside, too.

  I put on my old pajamas that are too small for me,
and get under the thin blanket on my bed. Clutching my book to my chest, I close my eyes and pray Dad will leave me alone tonight.

  My thoughts begin to drift, and the darkness of twilight finds its way into my mind. The hopeless sting of the chilled night air keeps me hovering between the living and the dead.

  Dead…such a pleasing, calming word. The dead get to sleep, to rest without being tortured by the doomed.

  As my eyes close and my mind drifts into shadows of peace, I feel my book slip out of my fingers. I jerk awake and meet the angry, drunken green eyes of my father. “Dad,” I startle, as I try and grab at my book.

  He rips it out of my hand and begins to flick through it. “Is this what you fill your head with? Trash?” Dad keeps turning the pages slowly, as he slightly sways from side to side.

  “What have I done for you to treat me so badly?” I ask. It’s something I ask from time to time, and I never get an answer, other than more alcohol filled mumblings.

  He slowly lifts his eyes from the book; an evil, deviant smile gradually tugging at the corners of his mouth. He moves my book so he’s holding it in two hands, and suddenly rips straight through it.

  “NO!” I scream as I leap out of bed and throw myself at him. “Please!” I beg. My voice is laden with pain, pleading for him to not destroy the only thing that allows me an escape from this hell-hole house on this hell-hole street; where no one hears anything, and everyone ignores everything.

  Dad looks at me, his face set and his eyes frighteningly cold. He takes in a breath, and with complete clarity he says, “It should have been you.” Those words are filled with malice, his tone lethal, destructive.

  “What did I ever do?” I cry as I slump at his feet. The torn pages are strewn carelessly all over the floor.

  “Listen here, bitch. You should’ve died instead of them.”

  Them? My eyes fly up to look at Dad. I don’t even know what he’s talking about. I have no idea who ‘them’ are.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry for whatever I did. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry,” I sob as I clutch my hair and bring my head to my knees.

  “So you should be.” Dad just walks out of my room, leaving me with an ache so deep in my soul I don’t think I’ll ever be able to feel normal again.