Caleb

Caleb Jason Graham

December 24, 2012

"My name is Caleb, and I am 17 years old. This is my first time ever writting in a journal. I always thought it was stupid because it felt like a diary. I would always just let out my frustrations and pain through boxing. I love to hit things and break peoples noses. I don't know why, maybe it makes me a horrible person. I just like to hurt people, probably because I've been hurt and I'm still being hurt so so so badly. I can't even tell you how many bruises and broken bones I've had since I turned eleven. I wish my dad would come back, my real one not this asshole who thinks he can just do whatever he wants. Not this devil who snuck into my room that night he was really drunk. Not that fucker who hit my mom, or broke my shoulder. Not that degenerate that sits on that couch all day when he's not out drinking or sleeping with whores. I just wish I could FUCKING KILL HIM!!!!! I JUST WANNA TEAR HIS THROAT OUT!!!! I HOPE HE GETS HIS LIMBS CUT OFF AFTER BEING GANG RAPPED BY RUSSIAN GANGSTERS!!! I JUST WANNA DIE I JUST WANNA DIE!!!!! PLEASE PLEASE SOMEONE FUCKING KILL ME!!! I can't do this anymore........."

I woke up Christmas morning, the room was dark. The walls seemed to slump onto the floor. Everything was quiet in the house and that worried me. I got up from bed and walked over to the door. I slowly opened it, hoping that maybe Jim was still asleep.

Jim is my stepdad, or the devil as I call him. He thinks he's tough because he's six foot five and is sort of muscular. He always walks around the house in sweat pants but never wears a shirt. He has this small beer belly which came with all the alcohol he drank everyday. It was amazing to me how he stayed as skinny as he was. Maybe he sweated a lot when he beat the shit out of me. Now that I think about it yah, that's probably it..... He does that a lot. He has short black hair and a medium sized beared growing from that hideous thing he calls a face. He has multiple scars across his cheeks and below his eyes from the few times mom put up a fight against him. Usually that ended with her going to the hospital. He always wore these Adidas sneakers dark black like he had ran through fire and the shoes got burnt. His breath always smelled like cigarettes and beer yet he went around portraying he was a saint to the entire neighborhood and those fuckers believed him.

Jim was ex marine, he saw a lot of things during his tours in Iran. He killed a lot of people and I have little doubt I'll be added to that list one day. He was a war hero one time for saving his entire unit during an ambush in the summer of 2009. Two years later he was discharged for reasons I still don't know. He came back a little crazy, seeing those kind of things can make someone paranoid. Story I heard is his family couldn't handle him anymore and shipped him off to some mental institution. How he managed to get released I will always wonder. All I know is this man is not who he claims to be and he is no hero in my home. Unfortunately for me, mom loves him and can't see how bad he hurts both of us so for now I have to deal.

I crept quietly down the stairs, the air smelled like liquor. I knew that meant nothing good for me. The liquor smell grew stronger with every step I took down the stairs. The stairs seemed to grow as I descended, maybe I just wasn't moving.

I'm not sure what hit me, the hall was too dark. All I remember is one minute I'm creeping down the stairs, the next I have Jim standing over me. I was laying on the stairs, my head bleeding. A drop of blood rolled down my cheek. I couldn't breath, choking on the intense smell of alcohol on this man. He stood over me, angry, amused I couldn't tell which. He put his foot on my chest and then made this terribly disgusting gargling sound. I knew it was coming but didn't bother to try to move, it was useless. I closed my eyes as I heard him spit and the wet saliva that originated in the alcohol and cigarette filled mouth of his now layed on my neck. At least he missed my face today.

I tried to struggle for a second and he kicked me in the face. The room was spinning, my vision going fuzzy as I tried to stand up. It was useless, he just pushed me back down again. He leaned over he real close. He got his face within an inch of mines. I could smell toxic flowing through his lips and poisoning the air around me. I thought I would die of the smell alone. I waited as he sat there, staring at me his face turned in a twisted angry smile. He was obliviouslt amused at my attempt to run. Second, minutes, hours passed I really don't know I was still to dizzy to keep track. He just looked at me. Then out of nowhere he presses his lips to mine for a brief second and then stands back up. I almost threw up as the taste of massive amounts of
liquor flooded through me in a cold shiver. He pours the alcohol on my head as he always does before he kicks me. I twist and turn but he falls back down and hold me as he contines to pour his liquor over my face. I cough and cough trying to grasp for air. Finally the bottle runs out.