The Life I Call a Nightmare

I've lived in hell for most of my life. Though many would call it "home where, the people who love you are". But for me its the complete opposite. Every night for me is a fight with insomnia, and every morning is even more of a battle to make it through the horrid day as a freshmen. Not only because of the monsters that call themselves "people" at me school, but because of the pain from the fresh cuts on my wrists and the never ending pain in my uterus. I lay motionless on my bed, staring expressionlessly at the ceiling. Although I'm so use to what my father puts me through every night, it always seems to end with me here. Numb. Dead inside. If only I could leave. Throw all my clothes in a bag and just leave. Escape. I could go to the cops. Tell them everything.. I'd be free. He would be gone. Forever. I'd be free. You know you won't. Though I know I won't. I'm too scared. I wouldn't get out the door. And what if he finds me... What if..
To erase the thoughts from my head I quickly rolled over and rummaged through the drawer on my night stand. Under all the trash and candy wrappers I found it. And old rusty razor blade. I had got it when my mom had decided to redo the house. She had a box of razor blades to use to cut up the carpet. When she wasn't home one night, after the nightly meeting with my father, I grabbed one. That was the first night I've ever done it. I had sat on the edge of my bed weeping in silence. I had seen it before on the internet and in movies. I slowly dragged the razor blade across my wrist. All the rage I had built up, all the suicidal thoughts, everything, seemed to spill out in the color of red. In a sick way I felt relieved.