𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

Three

I didn't think life could get much worse. Apparently I was dead wrong.

"A baby?" My angry voice echoed through our old house. "What, did you guys decide that I'm not enough for your new perfect Texas life?"

They share the look again. I want to break something. I want to wait for their reply but I don't. I stand up and knock my plate of pasta on the floor, the plate shattering into tiny shards around the room. My mother shrieks and Dad gets up from his seat before grabbing her and putting her in the kitchen.

I stare at the mess I've made as my vision gets blurry, tears filling my eyes but not quite falling. I haven't cried in years. The sight looks like a crime scene with red sauce mimicking blood coating each shard and majority of the floor. Part of me wants to indulge in this moment—live in it forever. It's so much easier being in pain for the rest of your life than having to deal with it. I'm done dealing with it.

"Look what you've done!" Mom yells from the doorway to the kitchen, her own tears coating her cheeks. She drops to her knees, surveying the mess I made.

The salty tears finally escape and roll down my face. "Why do you care? Dad breaks things every week."

Suddenly, my dad is speeding towards me and punching me in the face, hard. Hot blood runs down my nose to my lips as I stumble backward and my back hits the wall next to the front door. Dad doesn't look guilty when I meet his gaze. In fact, he looks like he wants to go in for another hit.

I wipe the blood from my nose—ignoring the fact that more just comes rushing out after—and run to my room.

Our house only has one floor, not even a basement, so you can hear pretty much everything. Which means I hear the sobs of my mother and the cursing of my father while he rants to her about how at least they'll have a new life soon and put me in a mental hospital.

"She's in high school, she needs to grow up."

That's the last thing I hear before everything disappears.