Will This Ever Get Better?

Will This Ever Get Better? Part 1

Sometimes I really hate the people who call themselves my parents.  Sometimes I just want to be part of a normal family, a family that isn't always fighting.  Sometimes I just want to run away and leave to see if they would even notice or care.  Sometime I wonder if my friends are the only people that actually care about me or if they even care.

I want to be part of a family, a family that isn't always fighting. I'm tired of it.  I'm tired of coming home and everyday and not knowing what I'll see.  I'm tired of being scared to bring my friends or boyfriend home because I have to worry about what they'll see and if they'll judge me.  I'm tired of having to worry about and protect my eight year old sister, Morgan.  I'm tired of trying to hide her from everything that goes on in the house.  Most of all, I'm tired of having to use make-up and lie about all my cuts, bruises, and injuries.

Everyday on the drive home from school I worry about what will be going on at the house when I get there.  I never know if my parents will be fighting, if my dad's drug dealers will be there, or if my alcoholic mother will be drunk.

Everyday I come home to the same routine life.  Today was like most of those routine, painful, boring days but worse.  My usual days are filled with hurt and abuse, but today added heartbreak.

Let me formally introduce myself: my name is Sierra and I live a life of hell.  My mother is an alcoholic, my father is a druggie, and I have an eight year old sister named Morgan.  I am sixteen years old but I feel like I raise my sister on my own.  The only reason my parents even care if I'm around is because I cook the food, clean the house, and take care of my sister.

I never have understood why people go around saying FML when most of them have great lives.  Most of them get anything they ask for.  Most of the time people say it because they got grounded, or had their phone taken away.  It pisses me off to go around and hear people saying it when they do it just to get attention and sympathy.  They don't realize just how good their lives are and how terrible other people's lives are.

Today began like most; I woke up around five thirty to take a shower.  After I got out and dried off I put on a pair of skinny jeans and a long sleeve v-neck shirt.  I dried and straightened my hair and then stood in front of the mirror with my make-up kit in front of me.

I look in the mirror and see my long, light brown hair hanging on both sides of my face and my side bangs covering my right eye.  My face is all torn up.  My lip is swollen form where my dad punched me last night, I can still see my mom's handprint outlined on my face, and there are small cuts and bruises all over my face.  I lift my side bangs and tuck them behind my ear to reveal a black eye.  It's puffy, swollen, and dark purple.

I used my make-up to cover up the cuts, bruises, and handprint.  I put some make up on my eye to try and tried cover it up but it's still noticeable so I covered it with my bangs.  The only thing left to worry about is my lip.  I can't use make-up so I'll have to say that I tripped when taking Morgan to the park.

When I finished I put the make-up kit away before entering my room where Morgan slept last night.  She is curled up on the bed and looks so innocent I don't want to wake her up, but can't let her miss school.  I shake her shoulder and she sits up.  Her wavy, brown hair is a mess and her cute face free of cuts and bruises, unlike mine.  She opened her eyes and her blue eyes examined my face and she reached her little hand out to touch my lip.  "I sorry, you okay?"  She whispered.