Finally at Peace

~This is an original that I wrote and sumbitted for the Georgia Young Authurs competion.~

They say that what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, but what if it does kill you? Does that make you weak? No. Does it make you stronger? No. Happier? No. For many it makes them peaceful, though sometimes it doesn't always work that way. I was not at peace when I first figured out that I died, but now I am peaceful, and happy. My name was Angela Willow; I was 14 when my father murdered me and this is my story.

"Remember y'all have a test tomorrow over participles, gerunds, and infinitives, it is a 50-question test and will count for 30 percent of your final grade," my language arts teacher, Mrs. Steen, reminded us. We lived in the deep south, so her southern accent would always show when she spoke. "Angela may I speak to you for a minute?" She asked.

"Yes ma'am" I quickly replied. I grabbed my black jacket and walked over to her desk wondering what she could want. I wasn't the best in class, but I knew for a fact I wasn't failing.

"Angela, lately I have noticed that there has been a lot of bruises on your arms and three weeks ago you had a black eye, is everything ok? You can tell me if there's something going on, I can get you help." Mrs. Steen asked, almost pleadingly. I wanted to trust her, I wanted to escape, I didn't know how much more I could take.

'This could be my chance, I could escape, I could be free from the pain. I have to take a stand; I have to help myself.' I thought to myself "Mrs. Steen, I-I well, it's-it's my dad. He gets angry sometimes, and then he gets violent." I managed to stammer out, I was afraid, 'What if she didn't believe me and told my dad?' I thought to myself.

"Oh Angela, I'm so sorry, I never noticed. You're going to be okay, you're safe. We can go to the police and make a statement and get you out of that house today." Mrs. Steen tried to assure me. A million thoughts ran through my head, but I pushed them away, I had to be strong.

Mrs. Steen and I walked to the front office in silence, I was terrified, I didn't know what would happen to me. "Hi Mrs. Steen, Angela, what can I do for y'all?" The receptionist asked in her tired, yet happy voice. Her daughter who was a sophomore at the high school, a whole three years above me.

"Hey Mrs. Johnson, is Officer Paul still here, we need to talk to him about something private." Mrs. Steen whispered in an urgent tone. Mrs. Johnson quickly understood the gravity of the situation and led us to his office.

"Good afternoon ladies, is there a problem?" Officer Paul asked, he was tall, taller than anyone I had ever met, his dark chocolate skin had a slight sheen to it, as if he had been running, which knowing this school he probably was. My school always had fights in the parking lot, which he had to normally break up.

"Angela, can you tell the officer what you told me?" Mrs. Steen gently asked me. I told the officer what I told her, still stammering. The officer pulled out some papers and began writing things down asking me questions about, but when he got to how long it had been going on I couldn't answer. "Angela it's alright, he can't hurt you here." Mrs. Steen assured me.

"As long as I can remember." I said quietly. It was true, my dad had been beating me for as long as I could remember.

"Has your mother ever noticed?" The officer asked while handing me a box of tissues. I pulled one out and played with the edges of it.

"Mom's dead, father said she lost her use." I said slowly, not sure if it was the right thing to say.

"Angela, what do you mean by that?" The officer asked, he was unsure of what to do. He had a child in here that was being abused, and she might've just said that her father killed her own mother.