Author's note: Hey everyone! So, I was writing this story back in high school purly for healing purposes. However, I got curious, and decided to put it on here to see if people like it. I just started writing after a year or so of writer's block, and have many more ideas. I am going to upload the 1st chapter as well as the Prologue. I must warn you there is some language, especially at first. it dies down quite a bit later on. Well, I'll leave you to it. Whether you like the chapters or not, please comment on them. Thank you all for your time and interest. Enjoy! :)

“Shit! Here we go again!” I clenched my teeth and glare at my feet. My dad is doing  his nightly trash talking, of course. Ever since my mother died four years ago, my dad has been a horrible drunk; even worse than before her passing. What’s worse, is when he drinks, he gets appallingly abusive. Thankfully, for the last year and a half, the abuse has been mostly mental. Not that I don’t try to stand up for myself; I really do. But every time I try, things just get worse.  “You are worthless!” “You are a waste of the air you breathe!”  The insults fly. “It should have been you instead of your poor mother.” That last one is always the one to get me. After my father finally has his fill, he goes to sleep for the fifth and final time tonight. Already crying from the last comment, I take my chance and run to my room. Usually, I listen to music and write for a while after all this happens. I use it as a form of therapy, if you will. It helps, but not close to as much as my secret stash of cigarettes. I eye my stash lovingly, exhale deeply, and light one up.      

            Four cigs later, I am a bit calmer and thinking semi-logically. Exhausted from putting up with this bullshit yet again, I try to reason with myself on how to get away from this hell hole. I contemplate just simply moving, but there are two reasons that wouldn’t work: One- I have no job, meaning no money to speak of, and two- I have no one else who would support me if he or she didn’t have to. Well that theory is blown. I could go to the local homeless shelter, but within that lies even more crazy ass drunks. If I have to deal with one regardless, I’d prefer it be my father. Going to the police? Yeah, right. I am far too close to eighteen for them to give a shit, plus I’d have no proof of his abuse, since he no longer hits me.

The only other option I can think of is suicide. The only problem with that selection is I don’t think I want to die yet. I shouldn’t have to waste the one and only life I will ever have just because my drunken prick of a father puts me through so much misery. Who knows? It might all get better in the end. But then again, life is not a fucking fairy tale; there are never happy endings. I can be optimistic, but what I should be is realistic. And if I were to commit suicide, it would give my father a deep satisfaction which he does not deserve.All this thinking gives me a migraine, so I smoke another cigarette. I happen to look at my alarm clock, noticing it is four am, which is one hour before I need to wake up for school, so I lay down and attempt to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about my father and the shitty way he treats me, but somehow I slowly drift off into a slumber, just to be woken up twenty minutes later by that God forsaken alarm goes off.

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