Unbroken [REVISED]

1: I'm Okay

Chapter 1

Blood.

Thick, red liquid flowing from my wrists.

Wincing, I take the blade and slice more of my skin.

Blinding pain.

I hold in a scream, as usual.

Another cut.

I swallow hard, keeping in any sounds that may give away what I'm doing.

I'm always so careful. One wrong move and a vein is cut, which means possible death. Not that I'd mind.

Deciding I've had enough for the day, I rinse my wrist under the sink and carefully dry it off with a hand towel.

As usual, I hide my scars and cuts under a long sleeve sweater, let my hair loose to hide my tear-stained cheeks. My flesh is bright red where fresh cut marks were made, so I pull the sleeves down over my hands to ensure that my wrists are out of sight. To ensure that there's no trace of pain in my horrid life. To ensure that I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

So many lies told on the daily. So, so many.

Taking a deep breath, I remove myself from the bathroom, quickly picking up my backpack from the hook in the foyer. I move as quickly as possible, desperate to not get caught in my parents' argument.

They're both yelling in the kitchen, and the screams ring in my ear in luscious red flames. My dad's voice is more prominent, louder and stronger than my mother's. Something shatters against the wall. More screaming.

I hurriedly stuff my backpack with my journal; the one I hardly bother to write in anymore. All of my past and current therapists say that journaling cures the mind. But who needs a journal when you've got a razor? All the same, I still carry it around with me everywhere, if only for the sake of keeping it out of the wrong hands.

After I finally manage to zip my bag up and haul it over my shoulder, I'm two seconds away from being out the door when suddenly my father calls my name. He's not just calling me for a kiss on the cheek and a farewell for a good day at school, or hugging me to say he loves me. He's yelling, which can really only mean one thing.

It means that I need to get the hell out of here.

I scramble to open the door before he can get to me, but it's as if the door is stuck on the hinges with glue. I tug, and tug, and tug, but it won't budge. I don't give up. I pull harder and harder, until I finally feel it giving in, and then sunshine spills into the foyer from outside--

Pain is soaring through my cheek. It's the kind of pain that makes your head spin and your breathing stop. There's a stinging sensation ripping through my skin, and my fingers immediately go to the tender spot where my own father has just slapped me.

Tears pool in my eyes, threatening to come down, but I lock them in a dark chamber where they can never be released, just as always. I don't cower away. I don't burst into tears. I don't scream my hatred for him. I just stand there, my gaze downcast. He feels less powerful when I look him in the eye. I'd know because this has happened more times than I can count. Nothing's ever new around here.

"Aaron!" My mother shouts at my father. "Don't you dare hit my daughter."

My dad shoves her to the ground, screaming wildly, "Shut up, bitch!" He kicks her in the ribs as he screams. I drown out my mother's cries and whimpers, knowing there's nothing I can do for her. My eyes close on their own accord, and I find myself praying to a God that isn't listening. Somewhere along the way, He gave up on me.

"I'm sorry," my mom wails, her voice bringing me back to reality and her tears pooling on the floor beneath her. "I won't question you again, Samuel, I promise," she lets out another shriek of pain when my father kicks her head with metal-tipped boots that I know we can't afford.

I can't watch anymore.

I can't.

I can't.

I can't.

I'm running.

I'm running so fast, so hard, that I'm not sure whether it's my feet or the wind carrying me. I'm a bolt of lighting, there and gone. I can barely hear my dad calling out my name in the distance.

"Carter!" He shouts. "Get your ass back in this house right now, or I promise I will kill you in your sleep!"

I don't hear him.

I drown him out as I make my way to the bus stop, just barely making it. Usually by this time, I'm huddled on the floor of my house, trying to recover from the beatings that my father gives me. So I normally walk to school. Taking the bus is foreign territory, and for a moment I consider getting off, but there's no way I'm risking running into my dad.

I'd rather die than see him.

Hell, I'd rather die period.