Every Word Hurts

Chapter 1

My brain starts to spark as the rain pounds against my window, waking me from a deep sleep. Opening my eyes slowly just a crack to see what time it is. 5:55Am. Mom will be opening my door any minute now. Thursday, two more days until the weekend. Huffing I roll over, roughly pulling my fresh sheets and blankets over my head. Wishing I could stay in bed forever, hoping time would freeze so I can sleep all day. Wishing the world would leave me alone. I lie under the covers listing to the rain hit my window harder when my thoughts are suddenly disturbed when Mom opens her door from across the hall. Gripping my pillow tighter as she opens my door quietly.

"George?" she whispered

I waited a few seconds then responded.

"Yes." My response irritated and half asleep.

"Time to get up and get ready for school." She instructed me as she pushed open my door.

Light flooded my room as if the darkness was being swallowed. Pinning the cover against my head to not let the light reach me. I groan as Mom walks down the hallway towards the kitchen for her morning coffee. Slowly sitting up to test myself to get up, I flop over again realizing I'm not ready for the day. I hear Mom coming back to check on me making me jump out of bed. When Mom comes back for a second time to check on me, I've learned to make sure I'm out of bed before she gets to the doorframe. Let's just say my morning gets a little harder when Moms mad. Standing beside my bed I run me hands down my face as I stumble to the washroom. My body feels as if I have eaten several bricks and are weighing down my body. Stumbling towards the sink I throw water on my face as I work in the semi dark. I'm thinking to myself how am I gonna make it through today feeling like this.

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As I make my way out to the kitchen, Mom is sitting on the couch drinking her overly sweet coffee and reading a crinkled Home and Garden magazine.

"Morning Sunshine." she says looking up from her glasses with a smile.

"Hi." I reply, walking to the fridge to get the milk.

"Sleep last night?" Mom asks looking back down at her magazine.

"No." I answer as I slide my cereal and bowl to the edge of the counter.

Sitting in the creaky yellow stool at our counter I dump a portion of Nesquick chocolate cereal into my bowl, and drown it with milk. Looking at the moist cereal my stomach flips. I realize I'm not even hungry. Huffing I pick up my spoon and choke down my breakfast.

"You're grumpy this morning." Mom comments. Dropping my spoon into the bowl, turning around I yell at my mom.

"I'm fine Mom! I just got up!" Looking at my Mom's shocked expression.

"Excuse me? You don't speak to me like that!" She throws back at me.

"Why can't you just leave me alone sometimes!? I never did anything to you!" I yell standing up.

"Go to your room. Now. Don't come out until your done your tantrum." She replied as she went back to her magazine.

That word fumes me. Tantrum. I can feel my whole body tense up at the word. My heart beat quickens, arms muscles tighten. The feeling as if I can't get enough air to my brain. I exhale hard as I feel the tears filling my eyes. I walk to my room, holding in my tears. I hate the feeling of this. I'm hurting the people I love with my anger. I didn't mean to yell at my Mom, I just hate dealing with more issues at are not there. She didn't need to say I sounded grumpy. I throw myself on my bed grabbing the blankets, pulling them as close to my body as possible. As I let the tears flow I let out a hard sob.

"I don't wanna be who am I am anymore." I say to myself. (Hoping God is listening.)

I'm so tired of waking up in the morning wishing I was someone else, living someone else's life. I just wish that all of the tears and sadness would disappear. My brain is slowly shutting down from crying so hard. I let out a big yawn as I start to calm down.

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For about seven years, this was how my mornings would go. I hated my life some days. I was made fun of for years just for how I looked. Now that I'm older I can't totally remember how everyday was in my early childhood. It was way worse the older I got. When I was six years old my dad's dog unfortunately bite me in the face... for the second time. (Let's just say I learned the hard way to not put my face in the dogs.) I had twelve stiches the second time, nine the first. This is where I got the name "StickFace". Kids laughed and pointed, barked at me pretending to be dogs. This was just the beginning. People in groups would bark and call me an ugly mutt.