The Day I Love Narrative Essay

Almost eight years ago I was abused physically and mentally, I didn’t think that even now it would haunt me, or that I’d have to go to therapy because of it. I won’t go near that house for as long as I live. Because the pain still lingers even if it was in the past. I lie on the floor of a hoarder's bedroom, cluttered with trash, dirty cloths, spoiled food, and food stains in the cream colored carpet. The roar of a busy highway a little less than a mile away makes my ears hurt. I had slept on the icy cold floor, pieces of plastic, cardboard and legos prodding my skin. My cheek is still stinging from the smack the night before. Rising, I leave the room, and step down the stairs making sure I don’t make a sound. In the living room I sit on
Pretending to sleep, the devil wakes goes to the bathroom and emerges with the unbearable smell of cheap disgusting perfume mixed with the stench of old lady. Soon after I feel her rough palm glide across my cheek, nails digging deep in my skin. My eyes sizzling from the smell of rubbing alcohol. She demands me to wake my sister and her daughter “the hoarder” from their sleep, a certain death wish. My sister lying next to me, sleeping on a makeshift bed of the only two blankets we were allowed. I wake my sister and she hands me my blanket I had lent her. I walk over to the hoarder half tempted to cover her head with a pillow and hold it there till her chest no longers moves up and down, despite my temptations I wake her. As we walk down the stairs every door in the house except for the doors blocking the elements have been ripped from their hinges, even the bathroom door. The hoarder has a smile on her face, bright and bubbly little demon. My father enters the room with all of our things packed in the car, ready to bring us back home. I slip on my shoes, as does my sister, walking out the door. He doesn’t notice that we’ve slept in these cloths. Thank god we get to go