Protected Abroad [AmazingPhil / Danisnotonfire]

One: Lock

It was normal. At least it seemed to be until that night. My parents were out and about like they usually are for the entirety of their existence at home. Or what I called home.

It has been in shambles. It seems it will always be. The outside was an off gray colour which the white paint had peeled from when it was in its heyday. Most of the windows were still windows, except for the select few that had cardboard, or wood planks instead of the customary glass pane. The small, maelstrom porch that held only four people due to the atrocious state it was in resided underneath the front door. It was years old built by my supposed father while he was most likely in a conscious state under the influence.

It's hard to believe, but the inside of the house is in as much disarray as the outside. There was carpet, but now there are only the bare floorboards that are beaten from high traffic. The wallpaper is mostly there, besides the stains from unknown substances over the years. The furniture is too worn down for even a homeless man to use, yet it still has a presence in the home. The appliances that should be in complete working order, to put it plainly, aren't. They work sometimes, but it's always a coin toss when they will cooperate.

Reading is my only escape from the mess outside my room. Words are my only friends. Books are my companions. The world outside is too repulsive. Everyone in books are better, in every way.

I heard the front door, hanging on for dear life on broken hinges, slam shut. Out of habit, I got up from my office chair to close the door. It was already too late.

A drunken, and who knows what else, man barged in, slurring profanities and everything else under the sun. He grabbed my arm roughly, keeping a tight hold.

"Wa ar youuu d-doin'?"

"Nothing, Pa. Honest."

"Ezacly. Youuu sould ge a gob."

"I should get a job?" I asked, attempting to decode his slurred words.

"Tha's wha I sad. Nows dis is fo' yo nout doin' nofing." With this said, and the alcohol rolling off his breath, he raised his arm, hand in a fist, and brought it down upon my head. I said not a word, nor did a sound escape from my mouth. The only thing that did was tears. *Three.* *Four.* *Five.* *Six.*

I counted mentally, staying curled up in my defensive position: fetal, even after the man left. Minutes dragged by, and finally, I moved. Leaving the so-called haven of my room, I looked both ways down the hall to see it free from what I hated. Creeping quietly to the bathroom, because it's the only room with a fully intact mirror, I flipped on the light.

Inspecting my new marks, I frowned. Blackening marks began on my face and trailed down to my shoulder, which took the worst of the beating. My heart sank even more, as I realised that I didn't have enough cover-up to mask this new bruise. School tomorrow would be dreadfully awful. Something more for the masses of students to make fun of. I sighed and left the restroom. Upon entering my room, I glanced at the only thing on my wall, a clock, which read seven minutes after eight.

To brighten my mood, I found my book had kept open to the page that I left off reading. I dog-eared the top right-hand corner to bookmark the page and closed the book. I made my bed with the few tatters of blankets I had to keep me warm and jumped into bed.

It was usual for me to reflect after a beating. It hadn't happened in months, so this one was a surprise. My so-called father was too drunk off of his own ass to even think straight. I already had a job. A part-time, small paying one at the local hardware store. It wasn't much but it kept me, myself, and I on my feet. I needed school supplies, clothes, and anything else that anyone else wouldn't buy. Just thinking about my situation made me cry every time.

Who could I talk to? No one. I had made a few friends, and they slowly drifted away. Some moved to another school, and some became too popular to even associate with the likes of me. I could have texted my friends when distance separates us, but I did not have a cell phone. My job didn't support me enough to pay a monthly bill. Let alone have a computer to Skype, IM, or anything else. Paying the bills for the water, electric, and septic was too much for one seventeen year old.

I wished I could leave. But without automobile transportation, alas, I could not get far on my bicycle without being brought back home. I still am a minor. That is the only thing that keeps me tethered here, like a dog to a post. Some tears escaped from my eyes, and I wiped them away quickly. I closed my eyes to sleep, but not before I locked my room. Though it could be easily broken with a shove to the door, it made me at ease a little, enough to sleep. That night I slept on the edge.