For the past year, 18 year old Camille has been getting away with four hours of sleep, a nine hour school day and an eight hour work day overnight. That is until her three teachers and a mystery guy walk into her diner one night.
NOTE: THIS IS A 'W...
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My eyes flutter open and I realise the car has stopped moving.
I look around, stopping when I see Mr Laurent staring at me from the driver's seat.
"Hey," he says softly as I lift my head up from the car door, blinking whilst I wake up fully.
Before I can say anything, Mr Hart has opened my door and is holding his hand out. I take it, feeling his rough grip, as I climb out of the car.
He keeps hold of me as we walk towards my front door. I reach for the handle and open it but freeze suddenly.
The smell of booze infects my nostrils.
I brace myself as I hear heavy, clumsy footsteps down the stairs.
"Camille...you're homeeeee," my dad slurs, stumbling over the bottom step.
"Hey dad," I greet him nervously before sending an apologetic glance up to Mr Hart who is standing by my side.
"Where have you beeeeeen?" he waves the empty bottle around in his hand. I watch in silence as it falls through the floor.
"Pick that up, you little bitch," his mood suddenly changes. I sense Mr Hart tense at my father's sudden anger but I walk forward and crouch near his feet, picking up the shards with my hands.
He looks down at me and spits before kicking me, making me lose balance and fall on the glass.
Fuck.
"Nope, that's it. This is not happening," Mr Hart yells and I sit stunned, scared to look up.
"Who do you think you are-" my dad starts to confront him but stops when Mr Hart grabs my hand roughly and pulls me out of the house, towards Mr Laurent's car.
"Get back here, you good for nothing whore," my dad screams from the doorway as Mr Hart opens the car door for me and helps me inside.
"What's going on?" Mr Laurent asks, confusion on his face as he looks between Mr Hart and myself.
"He made her pick up his broken glass and kicked her," Mr hart says as he sits in the passenger seat. Mr Laurent turns around and I see his knuckles turn white as he holds onto the steering wheel, pulling away from my house.
I feel myself start to shake as I pick shards from my bleeding knees.
I fight down tears, determined not to cry at my dad's usual antics.
I feel both of them glance at me in the rearview mirror but I keep my head low.
They stay silent and I let out a breath, thankful as I have no confidence I would be able to speak right now.
After about a 20 minute drive, we pull up to an apartment building on the posh side of town.
They both get out, this time Mr Laurent helping me out of the car.
