Hey you guys! You may call me Chelsea, if you'd like. I've been reading a lot of fan fictions as of late and I was inspired. I'm not sure how this'll go, so bare with me please. If you like it, please let me know. Not even sure if I'll continue it yet. So, please review.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the obvious original characters.

Thank you!

The smell of potent alcohol hung in the house like the scent of a long burnt out ciggarette. It seemed as if it clung to every piece of worn out furniture, every inch of the stained carpet, and on the ratty curtains as a twisted reminder in the daylight hours. At night, however, it wasn't just a reminder but a cold reality for all who occupied the home.

It was a continuous cycle.

Around sunset Arnold, the father, would arrive home, expect dinner on the table despite the lack of food in the house, then proceed to get angry because there wasn't. Lisa, the mother, wouldn't be home, because the night was when she worked; An escort was not socially accepted out in the daytime. Marissa, the daughter and only child, would be, though, and forced to answer to her father's anger, but only after his first few drinks. His money didn't go toward anything for the house, but only fed his addiction, stocking up on whiskey with every pay check he got. Half a bottle, at least, was consumed each night, much to the two females dismay.

Sometimes, she got away with just a couple of small bruises. On the nights he drank more than average, Marissa was lucky to walk away with a few glass shards lodged in her skin. Arnold was quite a fan of throwing empty glass bottles at moving targets, she'd figured out when she was roughly thirteen. That being four years ago, the images were blurry, but she still had the scars on her left shoulder.

Marissa would usually slip away when he was taking a large swig of his bottle, most likely recently opened, and lock herself in her room. When she heard the television come on she could relax, knowing M*A*S*H probably held his attention now. Then the tears would come with the feeling of helplessness, and as the walls began to close in on her, she'd turn to her blade. That was her addiction, her drug, what she depended on to get through the next day without breaking down. When she got her fill Marissa waited for the blood to clot on either her thighs or arms, reading a book she'd never gotten to finish. Finally, around ten, she'd crawl under the covers and slip into a restless sleep.

At about twelve Arnold would pass out on the couch, bottle in hand. Two was when Lisa got home, assessed the damage done that night, shaking her head before crawling into her bed and going to sleep like everyone else.

At seven thirty he was out the door for work, usually running late after not setting his alarm the night before. He'd complain about how he was the only one making any real money before leaving, going on about it loudly the whole time he got dressed. At nine, if she wasn't already awaken by an angry husband, Lisa would wake up and begin cleaning up the mess leftover from the previous night. Depending on the time of year, Marissa would wake up at seven to get ready and head off to school or sleep as late as she wanted. It really didn't matter when you didn't have anything to do. When there was food in the house she'd get up earlier because of hunger pains but without any she'd sleep through them.

If in school she'd get home at four and retreat to her room, trying to get some rest before her father returned home. Right before sunset Lisa would leave, dressed in a particularly provocative outfit, doing what she had to to keep a roof over their heads.

Then it all started over. Everyday it had been like this ever since she could remember. The only things she could depend on, it seemed, was the cycle and her blade.

Marissa Helms saw no end in sight, even though one was closer than it seemed.