** No Really, It's Fine **
** Chapter One **
Why me? I thought. Why did I have to be cursed like this.? What did I ever do to them? Nothing. Ever since I was eight, my father, Andy Watsonn, because a disgrace to my family. Beating on my mother and never sober enough to realize how much he is hurting her and the rest of the people around him. And tonight, I can hear my mother screaming from the other room. I try to block it out.
"Mooooommmmmmm!" I shout. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, sweetie. I'm okay, but could you come here for a second?" she hesitantly replies.
I slowly walk over to her room, tiptoeing to not wake up my father who is passed out on the futon. "Yes, mother. What would you like?"
"LOOK! It's your father!"
"What about him?" I reply with a snide expression.
"Check his pulse. Is he breathing? I haven't seen him move for a while now."
I walk over to Andy's lifeless body lying on the futon and I slowly reach my hand over to turn him to feel his wrist. I took first aid last semester, and I passed with ease. I had to do this so I could babysit my nephew while my sister, Sophia, and my brother-in-law, Mark, are out of town. As I press on his wrist, it was extremely cold. He has no pulse. I drop his hand, walk over to my mother, and say "He's gone" and I walk back into my room.
She begins to whimper and falls to her knees. Is it bad that I could care less about his passing? Hell-to-the-no.! He beat on my mother daily and then stomped over to me so I could feel his wrath. I was living in hell.
I need a shower. Touching him, dead or alive, is like kissing a frog. Disgusting.
As I step out os the steaming shower, I grab my towel and begin drying my hair. I slowly walk over to the mirror and crouch down to the floor. I had once carved out a space underneath the counter so I could store the things that help keep me calm.
I choose the box cutter. It has a fancy lilac handle and it is the tool that can do the most damage with little pain. Slowly, I wrap my right hand around the cold, metal tool. This one's for you, dad. For treating my mother and I like nothing. I slice a fresh wound into my forearm. And this one's for you, mom. For dealing with his shit. Another fresh wound, piercing into my skin. Sophia, this is for you. I slice again. For leaving while knowing what goes on, and for not taking me and our mother with you!
Three fresh wounds and I am suddenly relieved, but I mist cut again. I always do even numbers. I then clean the blade and place it back into the box under the counter. I grab my new pajamas, more like a lingerie from Victoria's Secret, and begin getting dressed.
I know what you're thinking. How can she afford VS items with a drunken father? Well, I'll tell you this, my so called father was the creator or Watsonn-Records. The producer of my favorite band, Of Mice & Men. Plus, my mother is a doctor, so with them combined, we get millions a year. They only ever spent their extra money on my needs, except for my father's alcohol. That money went down the drain for him. Thousands lost because he's an idiot.
I then lie back down in my bed. Fresh cute, new pjs, with Mr. Carlile's foice echoing around the room. I only wish that tonight, I never wake up. Fuck. The. World. Goodnight.
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This is only the begining of my story. Things will change for the better and worse.
