My Story

My Story, Part 3

While I was driving home all I could think about was the cutie from the diner.

'Dylan.' That name kept playing over and over in my head and thinking about his smile made me blush.

When I got home I was hoping my dad would be asleep or at least passed out so he wouldn't see me coming in so late. But when I walked through the door there he was, on that ugly, smelly couch with a bottle of beer in his hand.

"Where have you been!?" , He asked with a slurred voice.

"Work." , I responded taking my shoes and coat off.

"Liar!" , he yelled slamming his beer down on the table and standing up quickly. "I'm gonna ask you again. Where were you!!?"

"I worked overtime!" , yelled back.

He slapped me, I fell to the floor. I could already feel my face swelling up.

"Watch your tone when you're talking to me!" , he yelled looking down at me.

He kicked me then walked away, grabbing his beer off the table and going into his room. I stayed on the floor for a while, sobbing then I finally got up and went to take a shower. When I walked in the bathroom: I turned on the shower and took off my clothes, looking in the mirror I saw bruises from where I've been hit and scars from when I've been cut. I got in the shower, washed my hair then my body. When I got out I dried my hair, put on my pajamas and went to lie down, but before I go to sleep I pop a pill (just like everynight) drink a glass of water then drift off until the morning.