I'd say I'm thankful for what I have but I'd be lying. Which I hate. So I won't. I hate my life. My mom left when I was six, taking my little sister Ricki with her. I didn't blame her, just missed her deeply. My father became depressed. Started drinking again. Became more abusive. So I began paying bills and working at ten years old. THough it wasn't a small town i maneged to scrap up enough to get by. I even managed to go to school, graduate. I plan on going to collage in to months. I hide my bruise so no one suspected how bad I had it. Or if they did, they stayed quite. No one dared accuse my dad of such crimes. He was a hero, respected for his hared work. The abbuse continued. But you know, after a while, someone always snaps in the end.