call me a liar { arx }

”Whore” The words are followed by a slap across my face. It leaves my cheek stinging and tears gather in my eyes, my face red and flushed. I scramble backwards on my hands and legs, thrusting myself away from the young lady that brought her hand backwards once more ready to send it down and strike me again. My face stung at her touch and I was positive that there was a red mark across my face. The lady had strong hands, and they were stronger as her rage filled her and involuntarily had sent her screaming, her hand clashing with my head with a deafening crack. I could feel it all ringing in my ears, her words echoing in my mind, but being dragged backwards as my cheek throbbed painfully. I bit my lip hard, suppressing the urge to groan with pain.

Scrambling upwards, I hoped out of the range of the ladies arms. A flicker of movement behind her grabs my attention and I watch as the young boy –whose name continues to escape me- peers out, his face tight with shock and his eyes opened larger than normal. “Oh, please,” I mutter darkly at the name calling, it wasn’t really my fault that his girlfriend couldn’t provide for him enough and he had to go to someone else. I only did it because I needed a place to sleep now, my mother having thrown me out of the house because I had threatened to tell my dad she was cheating on him. She hadn’t liked that and it had turned into a vicious fight of heated words and bruised egos. Eventually I had called her a few horrid names and she had snarled, telling me to leave and never return.

The girl still wasn’t obviously happy. She lunged forwards trying to hit me, but she wasn’t a trained fighter like I was and my lean and agile shape allowed me to easily evade her next attack. I skip away and down the hall way, racing to the front door. The house was rich and large, the walls covered in fresh white paint that showed no signs of aging. Various paintings clung to the wall, most of them were rather silly and stupid, like the one right beside the door, it was a naked painting of what could only be the owner of the house. I shudder. Then it came from nowhere. The broom handle cracked on the back of my shoulders and I let out a surprised cry that soon became a shrill screech of pain, that lady might not be a fighter, but she knew how to hit.

My slender, but powerful profile stood strong, my shoulders hunched by rage, my gaze glued to the door in front of me. I resisted the urge to turn around a wipe that pretty girls face from her head. It would be so simple, to just hit her and hit her and smash her pretty little face up. I slam into the door and it gives way under my body. I go stumbling into the street. . It was a big house, the outside covered by a layer of thick cream coloured paint, the garden was littered with bright red flowers that stuck out in great contrast against the white background. A gentle breeze sent the flowers titling to their left before they sprung back up to face the sun that stood low to the horizon, it was still early in the day. The only problem with this perfect picture was me, of course, standing half naked on the lawn, staring vehemently at the girl that brandished the broom at me.

I very much resented her hitting me with the stupid broom, my check and back throbbed very painfully, and I knew there would be an ugly mark to ruin my otherwise perfect complexion. “Get out of here you whore, before I hit you again,” She snarls, I flinch at the word whore. Before a week ago that word would never have been used to describe me, a week ago I had been a respected high achieving, brutal girl. But now I was left to find my own things, find my own shelter and because I was rather quite useless in the business part I had turned to very drastic measures.

Rage filled me, and I desperately wanted to jump forward and hit this girl, I wanted to punch her and hurt her and make her scream until she pleaded and cried for mercy, but I didn’t have a broom and she did. Burning with resentment I turn away and stalk down and out onto the road. My face burned with anger and hate, I burned and boiled with my own embarrassment and my lack of ability to do anything. It was moments like this that I wanted to go home and tell my mum I would say nothing, she could keep lying to my father, I just wanted my family. But then I would remind myself that my father was a decent man, it wasn’t his fault, it was all hers. And I would tell myself she was cheating on him, and her words would echo on my mind, the taunts and teases, she had called me a slut, a whore, a hoe.

No. She had ruined our relationship.

The sheet I had managed to wrap around me clung pitifully to me, it was the only thing that covered me and the morning breeze was cold. I plop myself down onto the edge of the road, pulling the sheet tighter around me, hoping to keep some of the warmth in and not let it all escape. On the inside I felt so called, I felt all alone.