I slammed my door shut and flicked the lock on the knob. I wrapped my arms around me as I sank down to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief. I gingerly probed my cheekbone, wincing as my fingers rubbed over the bruise. I could hear pounding down the hall and knew that he was gone, finally leaving to the bar. Once I heard the door slam, I breathed in slowly...and started sobbing, cries racking my thin body as I rocked back and forth on my butt. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I knew that my mascara was running down, leaving black streaks like jail bars across my face. How fitting...they matched my life exactly. What was I to my father and my mother, besides a mistake? Nothing! Nothing! How often had hey said that to me? How often had they proved their words with their blows? And that wasn't what bothered me. It was the fact that they often ignored me completely. If I got drunk or got arrested or stayed out for three days hiding in the park, would they care? NO. I looked up. There was nothing of value in my room--at least to my parents. What did I see? A mattress and closet thrown open with clothes strewn across the floor. Then, not really knowing what I was doing, I stood up and grabbed a plastic sack and threw some clothes into it, then reached under my pillow and grabbed the only thing that mattered to me: a book that was my life, at least to me. The title read "The Outsiders." I grabbed my pocketknife and a stack of Pringles. Then I unlocked my door and walked out of the dingy old house. Where would I go? I had no idea. But I knew that I would never, ever go back...on pain of my life. I had had enough of bruises. I was leaving. Goodbye.
October 17, 2011