Battered and Bruised.

January: the bloody entry.

When I got home my mom was drunk, slouched over the railing of the porch, "Mom!" I exclaimed, she looked up at me. "What, you worthless waste of space?" she asked. I frowned, just going inside. "WHAT do you think YOU'RE doing?!" she asked, she grasped my wrist, I winced as her nails dug into my skin. "Mom, please." I whispered. "You little bitch. you think you can just run away?" she asked as she removed her fingers from her wrist and onto my neck instead. she was a heavyset woman, so of course I struggled. She looked me straight in the eyes, "You think you're ALL THAT because you have this hourglass figure and this pretty little face of yours, eh?" she hissed. I turned my head, the smell of alcohol filling my nostrils. "Mom..." I said. She's been like this since my dad moved back in a year and a half ago. Always getting drunk, its a snowball effect, my dad gets drunk, he beats my mom, my mom gets drunk, she beats me, actually, they both do. I learned to adjust, but sometimes tears do slip, occasionally. She grasped my neck harder, I gasped for air. She balled her hand into a fist, just before jabbing my stomach, I bent down, screaming. I ran upstairs, locking my door, I had a thicker, larger, door put in for reasons like this. I unwrapped my earphones, listening to Ed Sheeran, escaping in his lyrics. When he sings, I feel as though his lyrics as arms, wrapping around me and protecting me, loving me. So far, I only have music to escape to. Gary Lightbody and Taylor Swift now taking me away, "This is the last time I'm asking you this, put my name at the top of your list" They sang, such a lovely combination. I heard my mother slamming things around, so drunk it was pathetic. I turned my volume up, listening to. Every. Single. Word. That was to be sung by the two.