• I didn’t feel alright, and there was one explanation for that. Because I wasn’t alright. My sides ached, my hands were numb, and I couldn’t breathe, or even open my eyes. To see. To see what damage he had inflicted on me. So much damage.

    Eyes still shut tight; I tried to move my leg, an inch. But as soon as my muscles tightened, a jolt of pain shot up my body. My face scrunched in agony. But, there was no choice. I had to get up. Get up now.

    I gotta be quick about it, get it over with. I flung my legs over the side of the bed. Oh God, I had trouble sitting, let alone standing. But, I was daring alright, of course it had hurt. But, I knew how to deal with pain, I was forced to learn.

    I had to put my education to use. Slowly, my eyes opened. But, they didn’t dare look down, that would scare them, to see the damage on my legs. That would be too much for one morning. The mirror across from me housed a blank stare. It stared at me. But, it wasn’t rushing me. Just telling me that I was accepted. It had accepted what I had become. The abused.

    The pain came again as I staggered forward, I was supporting myself on my nightstand. This caused me even more pain on my hands, but not enough to have me quivering in agony. I was brave, I had to be.

    I took a step, another, and another. Limping over to my bathroom was a success. But, it most definitely wasn’t a success worth celebrating, I was hurt. Lifting up my shirt was not difficult, but seeing what lay beneath it sure was.
    No wonder why my sides ached. The colors black and blue covered them. Also the color yellow. Faded, older bruises. There had to be a cracked rib, at least one.

    “You’re a big girl,” he had said, “you can handle it.” His boot entered my mind. The slamming of his boot.

    My face wasn’t bad, a cut, and some dried blood. He had thrown the pan at me, but not before the scalding grease had seared my hands. They were covered in blisters. How was I going to hold a pencil?

    The mirror above the sink held the same blank stare. I hated mirrors, they told you secrets, and they told you everything. I turned away from it and peeled the rest of my clothes off. Limping over to the shower hurt, but it was getting easier, but it still had the same amount of pain.

    There was hot water, a blessing. Charlie obviously didn’t take a shower this morning. The water relaxed my tense, sore muscles. It pained me (in more than one way) to know that I had to get out, but I did. My waist length brown hair was hopeless, so I just settled with a messy ponytail. My wardrobe was scarce, but I chose my long-sleeved Beetles shirt, to cover up the bruises and cuts. I pulled on some dark skinny jeans. No one could see.

    I needed some more cover up; I barely had enough for my face. You couldn’t see the cut, well you could if you looked close enough. I walked down the stairs slowly, trying to keep most of my weight on my left leg.

    The kitchen was a regular kitchen, one you would see in most homes. Except one thing was different about this kitchen, it held memories, tragic memories. Memories deprived of love, happiness, and comfort. I took an orange off the counter, I usually didn’t eat much in the mornings, because Charlie was here, but it seems as if he wasn’t here today. I peeked out the window to see that the cruiser was gone. My rusty old truck stood there idlely. Sometimes I have no idea why Charlie kept that piece of crap. But in this case, ‘crap’ was a word of endearment, I loved the truck too.

    I grabbed the book bag off of the coat rack, I had accidently left it downstairs, after the injuries were inflicted upon me. I glanced at the clock on the wall above the sink. 6:54. Damn it all, I was going to be late, again. The air was very misty this morning, I felt it on my face as I slammed the door and tried to lock it. My shaky hands missed the lock every time.

    Oh, to hell with it! I limped hurriedly across the damp, dew covered grass, I awkwardly climbed into the piece of metal, the smell of tobacco and peppermint filling my nostrils. The engine came to life as I turned the key in the ignition, the sound of the engine starting up sound more like a loud gurgle more that a gentle thrum. I slowly backed out of the driveway, someone as clumsy as me can’t take a chance, even when you’re not on your feet.

    My leg throbbed as I pressed on to the only place I hated more than my own home.

    Forks High School.