Only the "Strong" Survive | Paul Lahote |

*chapter one*

"Don't roll your eyes at me you dumb bitch," my father said and took another drink from his bottle.

This was my everyday life, at least for as long as I could remember. My parents would work during the day, my father as a plumber and my mother as a receptionist at a local dentists office. When they would come home, my mother would lock herself away in the bedroom and my father would start drinking. I was kept blind from it for the longest time, my mother would distract me with toys, tv, homework, and bedtime. But when I got older I couldn't hide from it anymore and was forced to be another victim in the cycle.
This time, I was called a dumb bitch because he didn't like the way I washing the dishes. And, I never rolled my eyes if that point matters. I learned quickly giving him attitude when he's like this only makes things worse. No back talk, no arguing even if I was right, no eye rolling, no sighs even if they're unrelated. I do what I'm told, I do it quickly and without an ounce of emotion. That way, maybe, he'll just ignore the fact that I'm here at all.

"Bring me another one!" He demanded.

I was shaken out of my thoughts at the volume of his voice, and I walked the 2 steps to the fridge to grab it.

"Faster bitch," He yelled again.

It'd hadn't taken me but a minute to grab the beer and bring it to him, but it still wasn't quick enough and I was met with him in my face as I attempted to walk into the living room. The smell of his breath was unbearable, I nearly gagged as he snarled his teeth at me. I handed it to him, and could feel his glare on me as I turned back around heading back into the kitchen. And suddenly things were no longer uncomfortably calm. He grabbed my arm, twisted me around to face him and I yelped in pain. My father took his other hand, the one with the bottle, and flung it towards my head. I heard the glass break before I felt it, followed by the beer and blood dripping from my hairline down my cheek.

Although he had hit me before, threw things at me, yelled at me, and pushed me into things he had always been smart enough to never leave marks. Marks meant evidence, evidence meant he couldn't call me a liar when my school reached out about my accusations or when CPS showed up for the same thing. This time, I knew I would have a bruise, or a cut, or maybe need stitches. I wasn't able to tell without seeing it in a mirror.
His hand dropped to his side, and my other arm was released. I looked into his eyes, these the eyes of the man who was supposed to love me and protect me. The same eyes that held the most evil I dealt with in my eighteen years of life. The only eyes in this world that terrified me. I stood there for a moment longer just watching, watching his feet stumble back to his chair. Watching the expression on his face change from awake to drowsy. I wanted to scream, I wanted to hurt him back - to defend myself. I wanted to do so many things, but instead I cleaned up the mess on the floor and turned off the kitchen light before retreating to upstairs.
I stared at myself in the mirror, there was a gash from my hairline to my eyebrow and it looked deep.

"Fuck", I whispered to myself as I tried to clean it, knowing I couldn't take care of it alone.

Looking around my room I knew what I would have to do, leave. I was an adult now, there was nothing they could do to stop me. I had money saved up from a diner job, I had my own car I could use to take off, and I didn't need much but clothes and hygiene products to survive. It only took about 20 minutes to pack. I'd figure out the rest as I went, but with the oncoming headache and the continuous amount of blood just pouring down my cheek I needed the hospital first.