Sprawled on the ground, defenseless, weak, pain shooting through my body like venom from a snake. The snake was my father and I was his innocent prey. This wasn't anything new to me. I learned to expect it. The ritual was always the same. Slurred words thrown at me like daggers, alcohol fueled rage building up in his body, and then the first punch is thrown.
I always told myself I could get through it; I could be strong, endure the pain. But the voices thought otherwise. He never loved you. Nobody does. Even you admit it to yourself sometimes. My body was his punching bag. Bruises were nothing new. Sometimes he got scary, wielding a broken bottle, a cut slashed across my face by him. He took joy in knowing that he was the one who caused me pain.
I was an expert at hiding it. Bruises where blamed on sports, cuts were merely scratches from being outside. Nobody questioned what happened, where the bruises and cuts came from, because no one cared.
A stinging pain in my head brought me back to reality. My dad stood over me, eyes filled with hate and disgust. Words flew from his mouth, a seemingly endless fountain of hate; "You're a queer. I don't know how you can have any friends. James doesn't like you. He feels pity that you're alone, useless." Another slap, more stinging pain. A punch, thrown at my head, and I succumbed to the darkness.
I opened my eyes with a dull ache in my head. There wasn't a sound heard throughout the apartment. I half-heartedly asked myself where my dad was, but I knew that I didn't care. I picked myself up off the floor, and almost passed out again from the pain. I crawled to the bathroom and took the pain meds I've grown so used to in the past years. I saw my pocketknife, the only gift my father ever gave me, before my mom disappeared.
I told myself I would try it only once. To know the feeling of being in control, having the power to stop or keep going, to know that my dad wasn't the one causing it all. I slowly slid the cool metal across the inside of my wrist. Pain left my body and was replaced by adrenaline and the rush of control and satisfaction. Almost as quickly as it had come it had vanished the minute the metal left my warm skin. It left me craving for it again. I tried again, and again the adrenaline came and went. My voice, the one that was still there from before all this happened told me to stop, to end this stupidity, but I didn't listen.
"Hey!" James said in the cheeriest voice as he came up to my locker. Grabbing my wrist he turned me from my locker to face him. "What's up?" He noticed my flinch at his hand, the hurt in my eyes as he touched my wrist. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" he said with general concern. I answered back as I always do the morning after the punches are thrown, "I'm fine. Just a little tired." Part of my disguise, of keeping people out of my head. I wear it all the time at school. No one realizes what is really under it all, because no one cares.
The journal sat open on my lap, fierce scribbles flying across the page. This habit is what keeps me sane with everything that is going on. Certain words stand out, on the page, in my mind. James doesn't like you. He feels pity that you're alone, useless. What scares me…they're true.