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Bruises, cuts, knives and destruction. What other words to describe my life? I always believed this was how all people lived, I would not find out until my life ended that it was not. You would never know me, unless you knew my story-so I beg you, do listen. Perhaps the same will not happen to you.

It all started, well, my first memory per say, I was hiding underneath my bed holding my dear stuffed animal. It was my way of coping; I would listen to the screams, the terror escaping from my own mother’s lips; it grew calm. A knock at the door, it was him, oh how I wished he would go away, to leave me be. I curled up into a ball, clutching at my head in hopes he would forget all about me, but I was not that lucky; I knew it, my mother knew it, heck, even he knew it. The door cracked, landing down upon the ground, its unhinged frame laying on the flooring in front of me, I secretly prayed. I saw feet, I closed my eyes.

Hands on my underside, I turned, a smile so wicked it would make the devil himself become paralyzed in fear; my hiding place becoming open, my body exposed. I grew wide-eyed as grotesque hands shot out at me, my father’s voice ringing in my ears as he spat and cursed. Out of everything, I remember the blood, how when it was over, I could only taste the swelling in my mouth, how the spite in my father‘s eyes gnawed at my very soul. Nothing was different about this day, my father did his thing and left. I grasped the edge of my bed for support, crawling upon it slowly; falling unconscious soon afterward.

When I awoke, it was evening; I heard no voices within the house, my door still laid atop the ground. I sat up on my bed and wiped a bit of dried blood from the side of my forehead, bruises scattered about over my body, it was safe- for now. My hunger growled to become recognized I forgot I hadn’t eaten anything at all today. I was too afraid to leave the sanctity of my room, but I had to eat, my stomach howled feverishly once more. It wasn’t that far to the kitchen, I could make it there and back if I was quiet enough, and maybe he wasn’t home anyway.

My feet moved me toward the threshold, I snuck a peek down both ways of the hall- no one. I clutched at my chest, and tiptoed out of the door, my petite free hand grazing upon the white wall of the passage. A slam of the door, was it him. I hit the ground hoping it would provide protection from whoever it could be. An engine roared; it was just the truck being pulled out of the driveway; I sighed gently and ran to the cabinet.

My small form was unable to reach up toward where the food awaited, though it was a quick climb to be atop the counter, my small fingers grasping at a bag of chips on the high shelf. During my desire to get food, it seemed I hadn’t watched my foot placing, as I slipped; I grasped out for anything, anything, to save me. A hand caught me and propped me slightly upright on the ground, with better view I saw him, it was his hand, the same man who dealt the bruises on me just earlier that day actually saved me. There was that look of scorn again, lying deep within his onyx eyes, I tried to run, and his voice grew as did his grip. “Girl!” his voice sounding painfully angry; I turned around. “Get out of my sight.” His clutch loosening, I ran.

My safe haven, my room. Was it just us that were here? I wonder who left, who would save me, the bag of chips being consumed in little to no time at all. Footsteps sounding, coming down the hall, the form of the sound source coming into view-my sister. Her considerably taller form compared to my own wedging her way toward me, I backed deeper into the corner, her hand outstretched before me, “It’s ok, we can leave this place, but we have to hurry.” Was it so simple though, could I really become free of all my troubles by just going with her? I had to try; I grasped her hand tightly. “We’ll get your stuff later, kk?” A sincere smile washing over her face, a look of expression I wasn‘t used to seeing at all.

A voice from behind us; it was my father. “What’dya thinks you’re doin’?” His voice lingering in the air as he spoke it. His frame far taller and more intimidating than my sister or my own, he had the advantage. He took a step forward, a belt rested in his right hand, gently smacking against his left palm; there was that look again.

My grip tightened as he drew nearer, my sister stepping forward, my hand reluctantly becoming vacant. “I’m taking her,” My sister’s frame was somewhat smaller than my fathers, her shoulder length brown hair dancing around her light coffee eyes. She pushed me to the side, an indication she wanted me to run when the fight began. There was tension in the air, it felt like I couldn’t breathe, but, perhaps, I didn‘t want to.