Disclaimer: I own nothing but the general plot of the story. I do not own the characters in the story, I do not own their identities, and nothing I say or put into the story is a direct reflection omy the true identities of my characters. I do not claim anything I say or put into the story to be true. I do not claim to own anything but the plot and the idea of the story.

I know what happens if I'm late with dinner. So for that reason, I rush. Sure, he didn't ask for spaghetti, he asked for hamburgers. But we don't have any ground beef in the house, and he didn't give me money to go do the shopping for this month. If I explain this to him, he can't be too angry. Could he?

I check the noodles to see if they need to boil any longer. They're still a little hard, so I leave them on the stove a little longer. I stir the marinara sauce so it doesn't stick to the bottom of the pot.

I miss my mom. Maybe if I call her while he's not home, he'll never notice. And if he decides to check the phone records this month, I'll worry about that at another time. I grab the house phone, because he took my cell phone, and dial the number to my old house. I hope someone answers.

The phone rings and I silently pray for someone to answer the phone. I miss my mom so much that it was almost driving me insane. "You've reached the De La Garzas, and we're not in right now. So leave a message, and we'll get back to you as soon as we can." My dad's voice sounds on the recording of the answering machine. Great. No answer. I can't leave a message on the machine, so I just hang up.

I sit down at the kitchen table and look around. The kitchen is white, very neat and clean. Everything is accented in brown. There's a brown border around the crevices of the walls and brown dishtowels. A very nice kitchen we have in a very nice house. But between these walls, I don't have a very nice life.

I get up again and check the noodles. Why are they taking so long to soften? They're still a little firm, so I leave them on for a while longer. I don't want the sauce to burn, so I turn the fire off. I look at the clock on the stove. It's 4:45.

I go into the living room to rest a little. I turn on the enormous plasma TV and sink into the brown, plush sofa. I watch some show about divorces. I'd divorce him if we were actually married. I'm only his girlfriend, and I'm stuck here with him. I'm stuck without my family, my friends, my dignity and my life. And I can never…ever leave.

I flick through the channels and find something else to watch. I turn on a cheap version of Romeo and Juliet. It sounds funny, but I don't care. I wish I had a love like Romeo and Juliet. Not the dying part, you know. Just the part where it's love unconditionally. I don't know much about love, but I wish I did. I don't know what it's like to love someone, and they love you equally as much. I don't know what it's like to be committed to someone, and what's theirs is yours. I don't know what it's like to make meaningful love with someone.

I only know what it's like to hate someone with a burning passion, but still not want anything bad to happen to them. I know what it's like to be in a committed relationship with someone, but he's allowed to cheat on me as he pleases. I know what it's like to be in a relationship where everything is his, and nothing is mine. And I know what it's like to be forced to have sex. That's all I know about love. And that's all I have known since I was sixteen years old.

Just as I feel the burning jealousy of Romeo and Juliet's relationship, he comes through the door. I spring up fast to greet him. "Hi…how was your day at work?" I ask him nervously. He throws his jacket and his hat to me and I catch them as only I could.

"My day was fine. Where's my burger?" He asks in his gravelly voice.

I hang up his jacket and his hat and follow him into the kitchen. "There is no ground beef to make hamburgers, so I had to improvise," I excuse myself.

"You didn't buy ground fucking beef?" he almost yells.

"You didn't give me the money to do the shopping yet," I almost cry.

"So what the hell did you make me to eat? I'm starving."

"I made spaghetti. The noodles are taking a little longer than expected to cook, but it should be done soon." My voice is cracky.

"You've been home all fucking day and my dinner isn't made? Turn this shit off, I'm going to fucking McDonald's. They can cook better than this shit."

"Trace, it's almost done…it's just the noodles…" I say monotonously and nervously.

"Are you arguing with me? I'll throw it the fuck away my damn self." He says to me. His words are sharp. They almost cut me like little knives, and I want to hide. He gets up from his chair, grabs the pot of sauce I made, and dumps it in the sink. He grabs the pot of noodles and throws them, scalding hot water and all, in the trash can. I have to remind myself not to cry.

He throws his wallet at me and it hits me in my chest. "Take the fucking money and buy some damn food." He growls.

I hold my chest where his wallet hit. It doesn't hurt, it was just unexpected. He walks over to me with heavy steps and gets in my face.

"And if you ever make me anything less than what I ask for, I will cut off your cell phone for a fucking month. Understand, princess?" The way he says "princess" isn't lovingly.

I nod, and he roughly presses his lips to mine. His breath tastes like hard beer and cigarettes. "I'm going over Hanna's after I go eat, so don't wait up for me. There better be food in this house when I get home." He warns.

"Yes sir…" I say, ashamedly.

He storms out the house in rage, and I sit on the kitchen floor. I never cry in front of Trace. So when he's gone, I sob. You know, I really hate myself sometimes. I hate myself, because I allow him to walk on me like I'm nothing. But if I don't let him control me, he'd kill me. And I know he will, without an ounce of mercy. I know that I have to leave. I'm tired of letting him treat me this way. I wipe my eyes and grab the house phone again. I call my family. By now, I know that Trace will know that I called them. But I don't care. I miss my family.

My mom answers on the third ring. "Hello?" she answers. I know she doesn't have this number. I know she doesn't know who this is. "Hello?" she repeats herself. I don't know what to say. I haven't spoken to my mom in three weeks. He doesn't let me talk to my family, because they try to convince me to leave him. "…Mom?" I say into the phone, completely broken. "Demi? Demi, is this you?" she sounds panicked. "Yeah…Mom. It's me."

"Are you alright?! What happened?"

"I'm okay…listen, mom. I want to come home. I don't want to be here…I miss you." I start to cry, and I can't stop.

"Demi, you know that we always want you to come home. Daddy will come help you."

"I can't take any of my things, mom. He knows if I take something. I can't leave… I can't take anything if I leave."

"Demetria, I have watched you stay with him for TWO years. What kind of mother…You have to come home. Forget your things. You need to grab whatever you can and come home. He's gonna kill you."

"I know…um… I'll leave…tonight. I can't leave right now, because the maid is home and she'll tell him."

"Well you can't leave with him still in the house, Demi."

"…I'll sneak out. But mom…I need help. What do I do?" I'm sobbing into the phone.

"Go pack up as much as you can without him noticing right now while he isn't home. Demi, you're not staying there another night with him. Did he hit you?"

"Not today…but he threw something at me."

"Go pack right now. Later on when he's asleep, call me. Just call me. Don't say anything into the phone. When you call me, I'll be on my way. Daddy will come with me… you're coming home tonight."

"…I love you so much mom."

"I love you too, Demi. and you're gonna be alright. I swear."

"…I gotta go, mom. I have to take a shower and stuff."

"Alright. Don't forget the plan."

"I won't."

"Love you."

"Love you too, mom."

She hangs up, and I walk upstairs. I grab one of my biggest purses and stuff a bunch of my clothes into it. I even stuff my cell phone in. I decide that two purses full of clothes is enough for me to take, and I go into the bathroom to take a shower.

I know this getaway was easy to plan, but it'd be hard to actually achieve. I've tried to leave him once, and that's how I got this scar on my stomach. I've tried to leave him a second time, and I ended up with a broken wrist.

I strip off my clothes and step into the open shower. I reach up and turn the shower-head so that it's on my favorite setting. The warm water feels good on my skin. It feels good against my purple, sore bruises. I wash over a bruise on my arm, a bruise on my thigh, and a bruise on my chest. I don't even want to know what my back looks like. I turn so that the spray is hitting on my back. I wince at the sudden contact, but it feels good. My back hurts so bad that I can't lay down on it. I know it's probably a purple-bruised mess.

I grab a razor and shave my underarms, even though I know that there is no hair there to begin with. He always wants me to shave. Even when there is no hair. I shave my purple-spotted legs and wash the razor off. I am tan too. I always have to be tan for him. He doesn't like me pale. I lather the fuzz between my legs with soap and shave it off too, even though it's practically non-existent.

I rinse my body and step out. I wrap a fluffy white towel around my body and look at myself in the mirror. I'm pretty, I think. If you excuse the millions of purple bruises, red scratches and handprints all over my body, I'm very pretty. I have shiny, long black hair that touches my breasts, skin that is so tanned that I'm golden brown, and a round face with chubby cheeks. I also have big brown eyes and full pink lips. I think my best attribute is the tiny little black mole that rests on the corner of my mouth.

I dry myself off and put on a pair of skimpy lace underwear, a pair of basketball shorts, a bra and a spaghetti-strapped tank top. I'm also skinny. He wouldn't like me if I were anything other than. I'm far from stuck up, but I am too pretty for Trace. In fact, he is ugly. Don't know what I was thinking.

I was too worried about plotting my getaway from Trace to do the shopping. In fact, I forgot completely about it.

I'm worried that I'll get a first-class beating from him when he gets home, but he went to Hanna's, so he might not be too angry. Especially if Hanna and him had sex. If he'd gotten laid, he would be in a fair mood.

It's 8:30 now. Too late for me to hurry up and go shopping, so I'll take my chances with hoping that he had sex.

I'm sitting again in the living room when he returns home.

"Hey princess." He says, kind of smug. He's in a decent mood, I presume.

He sits beside me in the living room and gives me another hard kiss.

"Did you grab some food?" I flinch when he asks this.

"No…I forgot." I nearly whispered.

His good mood turns sour quick.

"Didn't I tell you not to forget?! I told you not to forget! You can't do SHIT right!"

I hang my head.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you! Why you always gotta make shit tough?!" he grabs my arms and yanks me up off the couch. Drags me to the kitchen and opens the fridge.

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE WE HAVE FOOD IN THIS HOUSE? HUH?!"

"I said I forgot…" I mumble.

He strikes me hard across the face for "backtalking."

I just close my eyes and silently pray that this would all be over.

"I'm going to bed. You don't do ANYTHING right!" he screams at me again and throws a salt-shaker at my head. He misses.

I follow him upstairs to go to bed too.

Please, god. Let this escape be the one that actually works.

Because I can't live like this anymore.

I lay in bed with him beside me and caress the fiery red welt stinging across my cheek.