Home. The legitimate definition: The place where one lives permanently. In my mind, a home should be safe. It should be a place to go, when in need of peace and quiet; a place to go to get away from the world. To escape reality.
That's at least how I used to define home. But ever since my parents were killed, things have changed dramatically. No more safety, no reassured peace. I'd be lucky to get a moment spared for silence. Every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day...I dreaded it all. Running away has always been an option, only one slight problem standing in my way: I have no where to go. And, mother's few last sentences had been directions to get to this very house. I remained here because it was what she told me to do. It was all that I could do for her. It was my last hope. Even if it weren't ideal... No. I couldn't doubt her now. Not after coming this far. It's been too long to change the way I'm living. Anyways, I'm used to it by now... Blake's hits felt almost normal. I didn't feel anything anymore, it was more the mental shit that got to me. How could that man be married to Aunt Alice? It didn't add up. She was the nicest woman... I had ever met. But Blake... he was a monster.
I would never blame Alice for not interfering, I'd much rather it be me who got hit, than her. He was an intimidating 6' 2", towering over me at my 5' 8". He was pale, like a ghost; expressionless and just as haunting. With his dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes, you'd never guess he'd be such a monster. He was a drinking machine; constantly downing anything he could drink. Beer, wine, Vodka, whatever he could get his hands on. And in return, I would have to pay for his excessive drunkness. But as I said, the pain was non-existant now. I forgot what it felt like to be in pain. In a way, I guess it made me stronger. The more blows I recieved, the more I learned to resist feeling pain. I taught myself not to cry; not to give him the satisfaction of my tears, my salty, bitter tears.
When I got "home," I quietly shut the door behind me, hoping it wouldn't wake up the most-likely drunk Blake. Much to my dismay, as I turned the corner, sure enough, he was sprawled across the couch, with a bottle of liquor in his hand. I mentally prepared myself for what was to come. It was always the same, never differing. The hits, the spitting, the insults. It never changed. I sighed, and headed for my room upstairs.
CRASH.
I looked at the wall beside me. Liquor was slowly descending to the floor, glass shattered on the stairs, some of it on my shoulder and caught on my shirt. I felt anger bubble inside of me as I realized he had just thrown the bottle at me, probably aiming for a headshot. Thank god he was drunk enough to miss...
"Where do you think you're going Fag?" He shouted bitterly. My eye twitched as he called me a Fag. He had no right to say that to me, I thought as I clenched and unclenched my fists and jaw. I slowly continued to make my way up the stairs, but didn't make it before he started his usual bitching. "Little fucker! I'm talking to you. You think you can just walk away from me?" He chuckled without humor, reminding me much of the man who killed my parents... I wiped the thought from my head. I had other things to be worried about-- like remaining alive.
Yes. I thought in my head, snorting. I could walk away from him... but it would only make him angrier. I had tried this before, and learned the hard way. He was less harsh if you played the way he wanted to.
"C'mere boy." He commanded. "I said COME HERE, BOY. Do you not speak English you little bitch? No wonder why your parents left you. You're such a fucking retard." I scraped my teeth together, slowly going down the stairs, approachinf him.
