My shitty excuse of a mother decided to verbally abuse me again. This time, for not keeping my room clean. Apparently, a tennis player can't have tennis balls rolling around on the floor, and having over four hours of homework each day isn't an excuse for not having a meticulously perfect room.

Sometimes, I don't understand an adult's logic.

"If I had a gun, I'd kill you immediately." She screamed, before storming down the stairs.

Well, if I had a gun, I would kill you, too.

I can't believe the nerve of her. She's lucky I haven't reported for mental and physical abuse yet. I have countless scars from her tantrums. They're along the face, when she decides I'm ugly, from her punches to my nose-usually resulting in a bloody nose (that I have to clean up)-to harsh pulls on my hair. When the latter happened, she would drag me around the house.

Maroon dots paint my legs, reminders of glass and plastic sinking into my skin, a plate or other dish being thrown at me.

It's happened so often, I've gone numb.

I no longer cry when her voice turns hysterical. I stand there, a blank stare plastered onto my face, trying to ignore this insane being known as my mother.

But sometimes, that infuriates her even more.

My father never intervenes. He used to try, but then he learned how futile it was.

Now, he doesn't even blink.

The tears always come in the aftermath. I would crawl out my window, onto the roof, and look over the edge, marveling at how easily I could end the pain.

End the suffering.

End it all.

If this is life, then I don't understand why anyone would want it.