Hi! I've had this idea for a while, but I'm just getting up to posting it. This is definitely one of my more mature stories, but it's really not that bad. Just some self-harm, language, and violence.
It was twelve o'clock in the night, and I opened the front door of my house quietly, as to not draw attention to myself- it was way past my curfew, and I was silently praying to God that my dad had gone to sleep a long time ago. I was dead if he found out that I was home three hours after I was supposed to be. Just my freaking luck. I see a colorful flicker of light coming from the television in the living room, and someone chuckling harshly.
Oh, God. Damn it, he's awake.
I tried to sneak up the stairs, forgetting for just a second that the fourth one from the bottom was super-creaky, and would give away anybody who tread upon it, but it was already too late. Before I can stop myself, I lightly place my foot down upon it, in a desperate attempt to sneak up the stairs.
"MILEY RAY CYRUS, WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"
The TV shut off abruptly then, and a towering figure began making his way towards me.
"I'm- I'm sorry, I kinda lost track of time." I backed up one step in fear.
"Lost track of time, my fucking ass." His words began to slur, and the smell of alcohol washed over me. The almost empty beer bottle in his hand was more evidence pointing towards the fact that he was completely drunk. It was nothing new, and I was expecting what happened next. He balled his fist, and brought it hard to my stomach. I doubled over in pain, tears welling in my eyes.
"You're just an ungrateful bitch, like your damn mother. I give you everything you want, but you can't find the decency to show up at home before you're supposed to?" He throws me- hard- to the ground, and my head hits the step above me.
The tears flowed freely out of my bloodshot eyes now, and it kinda hurts, stings.
"I'm sorry-" I managed to choke out before I felt an all too familiar stinging on my right cheek.
He had slapped me, and I could feel my cheek go red.
"Yes, you will be sorry."
"It- it really won't happen again, Dad."
"You damn well better hope it doesn't,"
I was sprawled out on the floor, and, kicking me one last time in the stomach, he tipped the can back into his mouth, swallowing the rest of the liquor. He walked away unsteadily, and threw his empty beer bottle at me.
Taking my chance to get up, I weakly limped up the stairs. Laughing softly at my pain, he went back to his TV, grabbing another bottle of beer out of the fridge.
I walked into my room, and collapsed onto the floor in a fit of sobs. I didn't know what I had done to deserve this, especially from my own father. There was never a time where he wasn't drunk, unless he was completely hung over, and passed out on the couch.
My mom had left us when I was only thirteen, throwing my dad into this crazy depressed funk, and that's when he started this whole drinking crap. It became an addiction, an obsession to him, along with cigarettes, and, occasionally drugs, and has been ever since. He was home most of the day, but left most mornings for a few hours, and sometimes in the evenings to go to a bar or two. Since my mom had taken off with my younger sister, Dallas, I was forced to stay here and live with him. It was only him and me here, no one besides me for him to take his anger out on. Just the slightest things that I would ever do or say would completely piss him off, and, the next day, I would show up at school in long-sleeved turtlenecks, and jeans, even in the middle of July, like it was now, to hide the bruises and scars. I was starting to get the feeling that some of my friends were becoming suspicious, and a little scared. Before my mother had left, I used to be that girl, the happy-go-lucky one, the one that people couldn't help but love, and smile along with her. Bubbly, overenthusiastic about everything. So full of life, full of excitement and happiness. Now, recently I'm becoming more and more depressed by the day. I hardly smile, barely talk or eat. I've learned to shut the people that care most about me, who I love the most out. I'm definitely not proud of what I'm doing to them, to me, of what I'm becoming, but I'm scared. Scared about what might happen to me, or, more importantly, to someone that I care about, if someone were to become to close to me, and figure it all out. I know that he needs help, and, someday, he'll find it. I just hope that day comes before he gets mad enough to kill me.
I raised my hand shakily, and wipe away the tears that cling to my cheeks, smearing them all over my face in the process, and attempt to stand up.
As I do so, something falls out of my shirt, and I bend down to identify it.
It's a shard of glass from the beer bottle my "dad" had thrown at me. I pick it up, observing it closely.
I shut my eyes tightly, shedding a few more unwanted tears as I press it's sharp, jagged, point into the bare flesch of the inside of my wrist, and it takes the pain, the regret, the worries all away for a second as my mind numbs, and everything around me goes black. It doesn't hurt like I thought it would. It sort of felt nice, like taking a break from reality for a while.
Then I realize what I'm doing, and drop the piece of glass. It lands on my foot, and bounces into the soft carpet, staining a portion of the stark white carpet crimson.
Bright red blood gushed out of the deep gash on my arm, and I begain to feel a bit woozy at the sight of the blood, and the rusty, metallic smell overwhelms me. I walk into the bathroom, and gently press a towel to the wound, keeping slight pressure.
I fall back onto my bed, and before I can shut my eyes completely, I'm completely out cold.
So.. let me know how you like it, or if you think I should continue!
