Dear diary,
When I was about ten, I remember my stepmother waking me one morning and dragging me by my hair to the garage. I knew better than to cry, but I couldn't help the silent tears that ran down my face. She threw me down onto the cold, hard concrete and I immediately kowtowed, hoping to lessen her wrath.
She laughed and shrieked, "Take a look at your new home, you little bitch." She slapped me and that's when I saw the gleam of fury in her eye. "I've seen him staring at you!" she raged, spittle flying. "You look more and more like your whore of a mother every day, so now, you can act like her too."
She grabbed me by my neck and hurled me into a metal crate that was just barely tall enough for me to stand. The only light in there was coming in from the door, and I looked up to her in fear. "Nightie night," she smirked, and then slammed the door shut. I heard the bolt click, and I was trapped alone in the dark.
That was the first night my father visited me.
