Disclaimer-I don't own Camp Rock
Running. That's all I seemed to know anymore. My life had become about one huge lie and I hated it. It all started when I was ten. That was the year my mother died.
My father turned to crude habits of taking the pain away. I began to dread going home. Sometimes I got lucky and my father was already passed out on the couch when I got home. Other nights I wasn't so lucky.
My father is Steve Torres and I am Mitchie Torres. My favorite song is Concrete Angel by Martina McBride, and my life is a lie.
My mother died of cancer. I used to think that my family was perfect. That was until she died. The week after my mom's funeral, my father began to beat me. I dreaded going home and facing him. He drank all the time and was turning into a two faced man. Sometimes he would be the sweet, loving father I knew before my mother died, and sometimes he would be the barbarian who beat me.
I thought it got better once he started seeing a woman. And for a while it did. They got married and it seemed like, for once in my life, everything was right. But it didn't last long.
Soon he began to drink again. At night I would hear screams from my stepmother, Connie, coming from his bedroom. It killed me to know what he was doing to her and many times I thought about calling the police. But I never could. Even though he was a stranger to me now, I could remember how he used to hug me, and how safe I used to feel in his arms.
The night of March 5th, 2010, I died. I came home that night to a sobbing Connie and I rushed to her, only to hear my father yell gruffly,
"Don't go near her!"
I didn't obey him and ran over to her to survey her newest cuts and bruises.
"Are you okay" I asked her in a low voice, glaring at my father.
"Step away from her!" My father yelled. Again, I didn't listen and I saw him out of the corner of my eye, pick up a sharp kitchen knife.
"I am going to tell you one more time." He growled. "Get away."
"No." I said defiantly standing up.
"Than you suffer the consequences." He growled plunging the knife deep into my heart.
The last thing I heard before my world went black was Connie gasp and start yelling at my father.
My name is Mitchie Torres, and this, is my story.