I thought about that night.
I thought about it a lot.
Him and I walked for what seemed like hours.
He gave me his number.
He told me to message him someday.
But the time with him was short, for I knew that if I was caught sneaking out, I would be hurt again.
My dad, he does that.
He hurts me.
But it was weird.
It was weird that he only used bottles.
He used his empty glass alcohol bottles to hit me.
To bruise me.
To cut me.
Why did he use them?
I don't know.
If I asked him, he would hit me again.
He hits me a lot.
I wear long sleeves.
Jeans.
To cover up the evidence of what he has done to me.
He does it almost every day.
Sometimes he does it because I didn't do what he asked me to.
Other times he does it just because he's a drunken piece of shit.
He doesn't hurt my brother.
But that's good.
Because I can tell how much pain he is in already.
Aren't we all?
I hate my father.
I hate him with a burning passion.
He yells at me as he hits me and thrashes me with glass bottles.
He tells me that he wishes I wasn't born.
He tells me to kill myself.
He tells me I deserve to be hit by him.
And that I'm disgusting for liking boys, not girls.
It is not disgusting.
It's me.
It's who I am.
I have bruises everywhere.
Like my mum.
I eventually began to put the pieces together.
This is what he did to her.
This is why she began to get bruises.
To get cuts.
This is why she began to look so tired.
So sad.
This is why she killed herself.
Because of my terrible, terrible father.
It all made sense now.
He did it.
He pushed her to the point of death.
None of this was me.
I want him dead.
He ruined me.
He ruined her.
He ruined my brother.
My family.
I locked myself in my room as I began to feel my eyes burn.
I couldn't stop the tears that began to crawl down my cheeks.
I grabbed my phone out of my bedside drawer.
I began to type in the number that the boy had gave me.
I texted him.
He answered.
He told me he wants to hang out.
I agreed.
But somehow, he sensed that I was sad.
I told him I wasn't.
I told him it was nothing, and that he was mistaken.
He believed me.
I am merely one hell of a liar.
