The Bright Side

Twelve

I count the cracks on my ceiling while rubbing the side of my stomach, a poor attempt to ease the pain.

Sighing, I reach over to my nightstand and grab the almost empty Vicks Vaporub. Lifting up my pajama shirt, I begin rubbing the cooling substance on the painful bruise.

I'm not sure if this will help, but according my mother, Vicks Vaporub could practically cure disease.

I take a large whiff, inhaling the nostalgic scent before screwing the lid back on and then placing back to it's home amongst the rest of the random shit in my drawer.

Throughout the years of my life I've blamed myself for not being able to make friends.

The truth is, yes. I couldn't make friends, and it hurt. Except a small part of me is kind of glad I couldn't make a friend.

My father ruined my childhood a lot more than I had believed. He was the reason that deep down I knew I never wanted anyone to ever come over to my house, if by any chance I had made a friend.

I'm not sure why, but every time he saw me remotely happy he found a way to tear me down. He still does. Maybe that's just his naturally negative self. If he isn't happy then he doesn't want to see anyone else happy.

It's as if a smile being present on my face repulses him. Makes him sick.

The fair was five days ago. I'm grounded.

After I came home and came face to face with him I almost pissed my pants.

He was drunk, of course. I could smell the whiskey on his breath from a mile away.

I heard things that I have heard him spew to me before. I just stood there and took it, too scared to deal with his intoxicated mind.

When I was younger I promised myself that I would stand up to him as I got older, but I've come to realize how hard that actually is.

After cursing me out and calling me several not nice names he grounded me until Saturday, taking away my phone and not letting me go anywhere after school.  It's now Friday night.

And as I was walking back to my room he accidentally pushed me into the dining room table. The corner of the wooden slab hit right into the side of my stomach. I had squeeze my eyes shut and stifle the tears threatening to escape my eyes. If I had cried in front of him that would've made things ten times worse.

With certain people you can't let them see you weak. It'll make them think that they now have power over you.

I haven't spoken to Owen or Levina in three days. I'm sure Levina has texted me, but my father hid my phone somewhere in the house. I've avoided them at school as well, because I don't want them asking questions. I need more time to conjure up a believable lie.  Plus I've been in a bummed out mood since the incident and I don't want them to think something is wrong and then proceed to ask me questions.

I could just be honest and tell them that my dad is a drunk and controlling man, but I'm too scared to admit that to anyone. I feel like if I say it out loud it will become so much more real. Deep down I still secretly hope that one day I'll wake up and the man I had once known and loved as my dad would be there, sitting at the dinning room table with a smile on his face and not one alcoholic beverage in sight.

Except in reality, I don't need to say the words for them to be true. The bruise on my stomach and the scattered light scratches on my mother tell enough. I'm grateful he doesn't touch Mateo or Camila. I'm glad he pretends they don't exist, because if they don't exist to him at least he won't hurt them.