My dad knows exactly how I feel about speeding, how I loathed it, and how much I overawed it; but yet he kept at 90mph, a smirk fixating on his lips every time which dimmed the sides of his face, an evil expression that flashes in my mind, forever....



I could explain how all of this happened, but trust me; you wouldn't be interested neither would you believe it, so unless you like haunting stories and the truthful feelings, I suggest you stop reading.




Ten years ago, my mother was found in a pool of blood in the en-suite bathroom, a note intermingling with the red liquid, the words stained and fainted by it; so now....Now I will never know what she wanted to say, nor will I know why she did this, this to me.


My face was soaked with the tears that had ran down the side of my face, I was lost for words. That very moment I saw her eyes stare at me in abhorrence; I lost my life, my mother and my mind, some even considered me to be crazy.


When my father found us, it was though he didn't even care, or even worse he knew about it. He wrapped his arms around me; the scent of sea salt ran through my nose, he had been at the beach? He shouldn't have been, he should have been at work, where he had been all day.


That was when I was young. I was imprisoned from that day on, the same faint yellow walls talked to me, they became my best friend, I even named them. The light hadn't been used in years, the bed sheets hadn't been changed, the clean white had become a sickening bisque color, moths laying in the cups, leftover food staining the floor and the plates; but this was luxury to me, this was the only thing I had seen for ten years, ten years.

My dad put bars on my window after I claimed that he killed my mum, he made a small cat flap at the door where he would give me one meal a day, and a babies potty, he didn't care about me 0 he cared about his reputation, the one that was ruined, by me.

There was a crash five years ago, numbing half of my face for life, and the man who is biologically meant to love me did this to me, and I know for certain that it wasn't an accident. And there it was, the mph meter going up like a clock that was being re-winded into the correct time, the unforgettable smirk slipping onto his lips, and the next thing I know, my head was being cut by sharp glass, and that's all I can remember.

And now I'm free, telling the story, the real story, the one that killed inside me, the one where my mother died, the one where I ran away from the house where I was a prisoner, not welcome.