My dad left when I was eight. It came as a huge shock at first, but I suppose I always knew it was coming. Every night over the past few weeks had been the same. Shouting and arguing. Then more shouting and arguing. If you could have been there, you would have realised how devastating it is to hear your parents' relationship fall to pieces, night after night, day after day. In the end it just got too much for my dad to handle. Mum told me that he was going on a temporary trip to a nice place, a place where everyone is kind to each other and no-one fights. Of course I didn't believe her. I was eight years old. I knew what had really happened. I obviously didn't want to admit it to myself, so I tried to convince myself he was coming back. I don't even know why I bothered.
No matter how hard people tried to comfort me, I could never forget what it felt like when my dad went. When he had gone, I realised how attached I was to him-like a moth to a light bulb. We loved spending time together and I could never have dreamt of losing him. But I did. Not everyone can have a happy-ever-after in their life. Sometimes I feel that I want to talk about it. I can tell that mum doesn't though. Since the day her husband left her, it's as though some life has been sucked out of her. The sparkling, electric blue eyes, that used to mesmerise anyone who met them, became dull and colourless.The soft, long blond hair that I used to plait when I was six years old became dry and almost sad. She was barely talking to me anymore. Five years on, my heart is still like a Christmas decoration that has fallen off the tree and shattered-lively at first, but then broken beyond repair.
My father was gone. There was nothing I could do about it. Every day I would miss him even more, but there was nothing I could do about it. Why did this have to happen to me? Soon my emotions began to take control of me, and I began to hurt people. I began to hurt people to show them what it feels like when your father is taken from you-when your life has no meaning. I began to bully people. It got worse and worse and worse, but I couldn't help it. I'm now 13 years old, and unsurprisingly, I am now known as 'that really mean one' or 'the year nine bully'. Do I care? No. Because I have already been broken.
YOU ARE READING
In their shoes
Teen Fiction'I am a bully. I will never change.' The words echo through my head over, over and over again.... Millie cannot help being a bully. She cannot escape the tight clutches of the sadness and anger in her head. If someone mentions her father, she would...
