The soothing music blasting from my headphones calm my breathing as I wrap my arms around my legs and pulled them against my pounding chest. Even though the volume is as loud as it could go, nothing could block the sounds of my mother screaming as the "love of her life" hit and shove her into a wall. Remembering what happened just an hour ago still has me unable to catch my breath and hating how all I could do was watch and scream my mother's name as he beat her. He came stumbling in our home from a late night at the bar; his eyes, a burning hell itself, his fists clenched, reminding me of a tornado that hit my hometown when I was younger, destroying everything in its path. That's exactly what he is and always will be, just a disaster destroying everything in his way, including my family. He is never home and when he is, he is drunk.

Taking out my headphones, I walk to my bedroom door and crack it just enough for me to see the living room. He was pacing back and forth, pulling at his hair like a savage, and I watch as he turned over the couch as if it would make him Hitler. Although he hadn't killed millions, he killed my hopes and aspirations every time he called me "worthless" and "not good enough." I hate him with a passion, and even though I was raised to never hate anyone, he is the only monster I can say that I honestly do. I took care of my mom when he decided to leave a week at a time or when we had no money for food, let alone the liquid I loathed the most, his "precious" alcohol. I am still shaking and praying that he wouldn't see me, but I couldn't move; in that moment I was frozen and staring at this monster who I had to call my dad.

I've told my mom to leave him many times but she never does and still claims to love him. Not only does he leave bruises and wounds physically, but he leaves them emotionally too. I am afraid of being loved. Years of seeing my mom cry herself to sleep and being beaten until she passed out, only made me hate men more than I already do and because of him, she became depressed and I had to drop out of school to take care of my little brother. We've been in and out of homeless shelters and some nights we picked a park bench to sleep on because we had no where else to go. All of the pain, hurt and scars we have are because of him. Him. He deprived me of my childhood, leaving me to care for two other people and myself while he drank away the day. Still to this day I have to take care of my mom and brother, even when I don't want to get out of bed in the morning. But I have to be strong for them because my mother is not able to.

Sometimes days were longer than the nights. Sometimes I ran away and didn't want to come back, but I had to, for them. He left as fast as he came, slamming the door on his way out and flying out of the driveway. I built the strength to leave my room and run over to my limp mother. She is unconscious and I decide to do something that I've been telling myself to do for years now that I never had the guts to. Dial 911. I knew that my whole world would

change and hopefully for the better, but I know my mother was going to hate me. With my shaking hands I pick up the phone and dial the three numbers that could either save me or make my life worse. Those three numbers are kind of like those three words that are overused and most times not meant, those three numbers are now dialed and my voice was shaky but firm when the operator picked up.

"Hello. This is 911, what's your emergency?"