"I am nobody,
Yet I long to be somebody."

The song on my Mp3 player got louder as I turned up the volume on it, seemingly drowning out my thoughts about not belonging and feeling like death would be better than this life that I am living. No, it is more like a lie. A lie that never ended; cursed to be drug through the mud and left out in the rain; a soul that had expired but been left in the body by an uncaring reaper.


I was living a lie because I never told anyone the truth, and everyone thought that I was something that I wasn’t. I was a lie.

My name is Isabella McGlicky, and I am a model. I am only twenty, going on twenty-one, but I have already reached some of the highest places in modeling. I have a few more problems than the “ordinary” human being, but then again, I never was “ordinary” to begin with.

When I was a young child, I had a lot more on my plate than many other children that were my age. My father would go after my sister, taking his anger out on her that he had kept pint up inside of him from work and life, and then he would try and blame it on her. He would stay stuff like she was the one who had brought it on, or that it was how it was. Then he would hug me. It was a s***** hug, meant to try and reassure him that I believed everything that he said. But then one day, things changed: he turned on me.

I was only eight, but I knew when to stay away from him in case he was in a bad mood, and yet even that didn’t seem to stop him this time. My sister had moved out to her dorm in college and she never came back. I was playing in my room with some dolls, Barbie dolls, I believe, and he came in. I could tell that something was different about him this time, but I didn’t know exactly what it was. It was like there was this look in his eyes and it was also plastered on his face. I couldn’t look at him because that look in his eyes was going to have to come out sooner or later, and I knew that, since my sister was gone, it would have to come out on me.

As soon as I realized this, I got up and ran towards the door, running behind him in the process. It was a stupid move, for he grabbed one of my pig-tails and pulled me back by it. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I could tell that he didn’t really know who I was: there was no look of recognition in his eyes, only anger and hatred. I screamed, but he smacked me across the face with the palm of his right hand. I cried even harder. He told me to shut up, but I couldn’t. The more that he screamed at me, the more I cried.

After a few seconds of him yelling at me, saying stuff like “shut the f*** up”, or “you worthless piece of dog sh**”, he threw me against the floor and then kicked me in the ribs. I cried harder, for I knew pain. He yelled at me to shut up again, but I couldn’t. This time, he got down on his knees and started slapping me, yelling more and more obscenities all the while. And just when I thought that if I took one more hit then I would die, he stopped.

He kicked my Barbie dolls all over the place as he walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. I cried harder than I had ever cried before, and then I questioned, why me? To this day, that is the one memory that I cannot block out. That memory is what has gotten me this far, trying to show him that I am better than him and that he is the worthless piece of dog sh** all the while.