The Literacy Dungeon (short story)

    It is Saturday morning and I wake up to my stepmother shouting my name for me to come to the kitchen for breakfast. I look at the clock to the right of my uncomfortable twin bed; it shows nine. My mood suddenly goes from peaceful to disturbed because I know what Saturday means. It means that I still have to spend approximately thirty-two more hours at my father’s house before I can return home: to my mother’s house.
    As I drag myself out of bed, thinking of my plans for the day, and thinking of nothing, as I had expected, I look at the plain, white boring walls that surround me in the small confined space called my room. I do have a few items in my room: one bed, one television that does not get cable, one dresser with a few articles of clothing inside, one radio, five stuffed, lonely animals, and one closet with a pair of shoes that do not fit anymore. Then there is my purple book bag on top of my dresser with clothes, homework, and books inside. I decide to get out of my room and walk upstairs before I depress myself further.
    I walk into the kitchen and nobody is there. We must be eating breakfast on the deck today. As I drag myself closer to the deck, I see my father, my stepmother, and my brother sitting at the table eating. I sit down in my designated chair.
    “Good morning, Sammy-Lou,” my father says.
    “Good morning, Father,” I reply.
    “I need to go to the mall today to get-” my stepmother starts talking but I tune her out.
I sit at the table eating my scrambled eggs and crispy bacon as I hear the people around me talk, but I do not listen.
    A few minutes later, I hear the sound of my half-brother’s name, Alex. Somehow they started on the subject of him, but I do not understand why. He should not concern them: he is not my father’s son and he lives far away in Australia.
    “You hear anything from your brother?” My father asks me.
    “Yes, we email each other from time to time.”
    “Is he still a fag?” My father asks laughing with my stepmother. As soon as his harsh words register in my head, I can feel rage and annoyance quickly flowing in my bloodstream, creating a burning sensation in my right shoulder. “Do not get furious, stay calm,” I tell myself.
    “He is not a gay. Why would you even ask that?” I snap.
    “Well, he never has a girlfriend and from what your daddy says about him, he sounds like a fag-boy,” my stepmother willingly says.
    “Um, you have never even met him,” I reply in a condescending tone.
    “You know what, I think you are going to need plastic surgery,” my father interjects.
    “Why?” I asked, confused by the different direction of the conversation as well as baffled by the suggestion.
    “Because you are looking more and more like your mother and it sickens me,” my father says with a smirk on his face. My stepmother starts bubbling with laughter. I stare at my father, frozen; shocked and hurt by his words, but not hurt because his words offend me but because he is trying to offend me. A few seconds pass, I slam my fork down, push back my chair, and stomp my way to the sliding door. I slide the door open with intensity and walk through it, purposely neglecting to shut it. As I make my way to my room, I hear my stepmother say, while laughing, “Awe, you made her mad.”
    Once I make it to my room, I plop myself onto my bed and begin to cry. I do not know why I am letting them frustrate me. Similar conversations happen all the time when I am here; it is just another normal day in the household of the Eggers family. I hate it here. In just a few more months, I will turn sixteen and I will get my license; I will no longer have to stay here. For the time being, I plan to stay in my room for the majority of the thirty-one and a half hours I still have here. I stop crying and grab and unzip my book bag. I look through the books I placed inside: Wuthering Heights, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, Twilight, and Alice in Wonderland; these books should keep me busy for the remainder of my time in this dreadful house.

    I am now seventeen-years-old and I have not spent the night at my father’s house since I was sixteen-years-old. I see my father about once a week, a couple of hours per visit; spending longer time together may cause problems. I love my father and I will always love my father, but we are not friends and we never will be. We disagree on religion, politics, ideas, and even morals. At the most random moments or the moments I least expect it, it seems as if he tries to be mean; and if so, then he is successful. My father and my stepmother like to throw crazy accusations, cruel judgments, and constant nags my way; it is practically a sport in their house.
    Despite the emotional problems they have caused me, I have benefited from the time spent at my father’s house. While I was hiding in my dungeon-like room, I read, wrote, analyzed, and read some more, and I am going to continue to read, write, and analyze. I discovered the beauty of books and became an avid reader. I let myself get lost in the works of Edgar Allen Poe, Alfred Tennyson, Thomas Wyatt, and many more. I would sit in my room in a spiritless mood, but then I would open a book and forget it all. I greatly appreciate what the books I read had done for me. I am now aware of excellent authors, poets, and journalists. I am competent and confident in the art of reading and writing and I sit in an advanced placement English class and manage an agreeable grade. For this, I thank you Poe, I thank you Tennyson, I thank you Wyatt, and I thank the other authors who made me the non-emotionally disturbed and literate person I am today.