Three things happened simultaneously: the beer bottle dropped from his hand and shattered on the floor, my father let out a deep, throaty chuckle, and his hand had struck me across the face. I put my hand on the spot he had just hit and felt the heat and sting of the impact. I looked down at the broken beer bottle, still holding my hand on my cheek, and I felt a heavy boot kick into my waist. I fought back tears and stayed silent. After a few moments, I heard the footsteps retreating and the sound of a door slamming shut. When I was sure he was gone, I looked away from the broken bottle, and tears welled up in my eyes. I never showed my weaknesses to my father, happiness was the last thing I wanted to give him. After a few minutes, I pulled myself off the floor and slowly approached my dresser, cautiously opening the top drawer and moving some socks out of the way. I pulled out a long blade, and with trembling hands, slid it across my wrist, adding to the collection of scars. I began to quietly sing a familiar tune that seemed to comfort me in times like this: “Heart beats harder, time escapes me, trembling hands touch skin, it makes it harder, and the tears stream down my face. If we could only have this life for one more day, if we could only turn back time…” My voice trailed off and I drifted to sleep.