Blessed

Dread

I don't want to go. I don't want to go. I don't want to go. Big fucking difference that's going to make!
They didn't even let me buy cigs before we left, and I'm going into withdrawal. It's been five hours and we're still on the road.

Clenching my fist angrily, I get a small burst of satisfaction as the scars on my knuckles expand, becoming whiter and yelling out their existence. At least I put up a fight, and nobody can tell me I didn't. My eyes wander greedily to my stepfather's chin, drinking in the pool of mauve bruises fringed with black shadow and the single, vicious scarlet slash which parts the murky waters of the wound.
I left my mark on him.

He won't forget me easily.

Mellowed by the sight of the pain I inflicted upon my captor, I allow a small smirk to paint itself onto my usually scowling face. In the mirror at the front of the car, my mother catches my eye- and instantly I freeze.
She's smiling tentatively back at me, her cherub lips slightly parted, sapphire eyes watery and uncertain. A small dimple shyly peeks at me from her left cheek, which I could never bring myself to so much as slap. All the anger in me seeps out slowly as I stare into those sweet, loving eyes which could do no wrong. Because she looks so innocent, more childlike than the spoilt toddler grizzling next to me. I love my mother so m-