The tears continued to flow down my cheeks, as I saw my very own father wrap his large, callused hands around my mother's neck. I tried to scream and get him to stop, but no sound left my mouth. My mother's fingers wrapped around my father's large ones, trying to peel them away. All I could hear were the nasty names my father called my mother. He hit her once, then again, and let her drop to the floor, gasping for air.
Then he noticed me. Sitting there crying, unable to move, numb. He approached me, as I tried to escape. He grabbed me by my hair, lifting me off my feet. I cried out in pain, trying to make noise. Someone save me, I thought. He spit in my face, as he wrapped his fingers around my throat, crushing it slowly. I gasped for air, when he struck me across the face. Harder and harder each time, I felt my eye quickly closing shut. My lip felt large and puffy, and warm liquid poured from my nose.
This is it, I'm going home, I thought, letting my body go completely numb. I felt a hand land on my breast, and I screamed loudly, trying to drown it all out, to get him to stop. Then all at once, it stopped. I felt myself drop to the ground, as blood spilled from my body. My vision was blurred by the tears that streamed from them. His foot made contact with my side, knocking the breath out of me. How could my own father do this?
I sat up upbruptly, panting, as the tears ran down my cheeks. It was just a nightmare, I thought. Just a bad flashback. My heart raced as I drug my fingers through my messy hair. I pushed the covers off my legs and climbed out of my bed, heading to the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face. I looked in the mirror, seeing every flaw. The broken capillaries under my eyes, as well as the bruising which became permanent, my unperfect complection, my massive nose, my ugly braces, my too-close-together eyes, my bad eyebrows, my chubby chin, my awful freckles which made me look like I was twelve.
I'm fourteen now. My parents officially divorced when I was thirteen. I haven't seen my dad in two years. Six police interviews, four safe houses, seven DFCS visits, millions of tears, hundreds of counseling sessions, and six moving vans later, we're safe. Safer, anyway. There's still the constant scares. I can't go out with friends, my mom has to be with me every second outside of school. My dad should be in jail, but the police screwed us over when I tried to tell my story the first time. Not to mention, I was bullied by my best friends in the middle of it all. News schools, new people, new walls to be built only to be torn down again. My life is no walk in the park.
I thought all of this over as I stared blankly in the mirror. It was already 6:30, so I got ready for another depressing day of school. Pulling my hair into a messy bun, I stepped into the shower. Gabrielle Aplin's "Mountains" blasted through the phone's speaker outside the shower. I sang along lightly, harmonizing with her soprano voice. The steaming water cascaded over my skin, turning it red and warm. Showers calmed my senses, helping me to think clearly. The mirror may be foggy, but my mind is not.
I stepped out, putting on my uniform: khakis, polo shirt, and carpe diem burlap TOMS. I applied my makeup and did my hair, pulling it back into a french twist on the side of my head. I grabbed my books and headed out the door, where my best friend, Delanie, waited in the driveway. Her mom drove me to and from school every day, making things easier on my mom. She greeted me with a slight smile, but nothing more.
I made my way to my locker without talking to anyone. I kept my head down. I had plenty of friends, but I never felt like talking to them. Everything was too depressing. I passed him on the way in. The guy I had practically been in love with since the minute I laid eyes on him. He was also my best friend, and I could talk to him about anything and everything, even my dad, which was a sensitive subject. He broke my heart though. He lied to me. But I couldn't stay away. I'm in the process of moving on, and it's not easy. He didn't say anything, too busy being the quarterback of the football team and the tallest guy on the basketball team. Too busy entertaining his friends.
The day went on, and the last class of the day arrived, history: my favorite and worst class. I kept my head down, did my homework, and only spoke when I was spoken to. Caleb and Lucas tried to get my attention the whole time, but I only wanted to talk to Lucas. Lucas was sweet and he cared about me, whereas Caleb didn't want much from me. They were both some of my best friends, and I could talk to them about anything and everything. Both of them liked me, but I couldn't choose between the best friends, it would crush them. So I kept them both at a distance. The bell rang, and I made a run for it.
