Annie's Room by Amy Cross Read Free Book Online

starts carving something into the wood.
    Stepping closer, I see that he's already inscribed the letter A.
    “What are you doing?” I ask, but he doesn't answer.
    Looking over at Mother, I see that she's shivering on the floor, as if fear has overtaken her. I know I should feel sorry, that I should have empathy for her, but instead I'm struck by the same feeling as always: I wish she'd smarten up and start acting in a way that makes Father not have to punish her. When I was a child, I learned pretty fast how to follow the rules in this house, but Mother just doesn't seem to have that ability. Sometimes I wonder if she's ever going to learn, or if she's going to have to be disciplined for the rest of her life. Is she stupid, or just stubborn?
    “This is humiliating,” Father mutters, still carving into the door-frame. “I shouldn't have to do this in my own home.”
    Turning to look at his work so far, I can't help but smile as I see that he's almost finished writing 'Annie's room'. His handwriting has always been loose and untidy, almost childlike, and using the knife isn't helping either; still, I feel a burst of pride in my chest as he finishes. He takes a piece of sandpaper from his pocket and uses it to file down the rough edges, and then he blows on the wood to get rid of any remaining shavings. Before I can thank him, he slips the knife away and then gets to his feet, before making his way over to Mother.
    “No!” she shouts, covering her face with her hands again. “Please, I understand now!”
    “Stop crying,” he says firmly.
    She nods, but the tears continue to flow
    “Stop crying!” he roars, grabbing her by the collar and dragging her over to my door. He pulls her hands down and takes hold of the back of her head, holding her by the hair and forcing her face toward the door-frame. “Tell me what that says!”
    She's sobbing, as if she might actually break down into hysterics.
    “Tell me!” Father shouts.
    “I can't!” she wails, adding something else that I can't quite make out.
    “I think she's crying too much,” I tell Father. “I don't think she can see properly for all her tears.”
    “Is that right?” He tilts her head back and stares down at her, and then he mutters something under his breath as he watches the tears flooding her eyes. “Are you going to stop crying, woman?”
    She stares up at him. I don't think I've ever seen so many tears in someone's eyes before, they're positively overflowing.
    “Are you going to stop?” he asks again.
    “I don't think she can,” I say after a moment. “Look at her.”
    “Do you have a handkerchief, Annie?” he asks.
    “I...” Looking around, I realize I don't. “No. I'm sorry.”
    Reaching into his pocket, Father pulls out the coarse sandpaper again. “I don't have one either,” he explains, “so I guess this'll have to do.”
    “No!” Mother screams, trying to pull away.
    “Get still!” he shouts, pushing her down and then rubbing the coarse sandpaper across her face, using it to wipe away her tears. She struggles some more, crying out, but she should know that resistance will only make him angrier. After all, he can't stop until she's learned her lesson, can he? He scrapes the sandpaper harder across her face, and although he tells her to keep her sobbing eyes open, she tries to squeeze them tight. Clearly annoyed, he starts rubbing the sandpaper in different directions, forcing her eyelids open and eliciting more cries of pain as finally beads of blood start running down the sides of her face. All the while, I can hear the sandpaper scraping through her skin.
    “Father,” I start to say, shocked by what I'm seeing. “I think -”
    I pause, realizing that it's too late. She's angered him far too much, and now he's wiping her eyes furiously with the sandpaper, digging it deep into her eyes as she screams and tries in vain to push him away. Finally, after one more big, hard scrape, he stops drying her eyes and pushes her down