There used to be this funny crackle in the air, this anger you could see. There was this funny thought I had, like what I did could effect the outcome of things. I thought if I was good enough, if I kept things neat enough and was nice enough and did well in school and was home on time and said all the right things, I thought my dad wouldn't hit me anymore. I really believe this for a long time. I believed it was my fault.

Maybe he didn't want to do it. Maybe he couldn't help it. Maybe he was sorry, and that's why he bought me things and promised that it would never happen again. That was a lie, whether he knew it or not.

On the outside things looked fine. We had a nice house and my dad had a good job and I did fairly well in school and I wasn't in trouble all the time and things looked fine. I don't know how fine I looked, because I started losing weight because I just couldn't seem to eat enough. I started getting real jumpy. I noticed it, too. I'd jump at loud noises and flinch away from people and I lied all the time, I always told people what I thought they wanted to hear. I was a mess, a real mess. Concentrating in school was becoming harder and harder, and science, my worst subject, was becoming impossible.

I'd fall asleep in school and jerk awake. I dreaded going home, dreaded what kind of mood my dad would be in. There were all kinds of degrees of the violence. There were the words edged in the angry tone, there were the veiled insults. There were the sudden shoves of plates and glasses to the floor where they would shatter. There was the slamming of doors and the punching of walls and the shoves and the slaps. There were the forceful grabs of my wrists and being lifted off the floor, there was being screamed at, there was being punched so hard, my arms aching with it, my thighs and back aching with it. I'd cringe and brace myself for that next punch, thinking I couldn't take it, and it hurt so much. There was being kicked, kicked in the stomach and the rib cage and the back. There was having my body slammed to the floor, there was passing out and pissing blood and it hurt to move, it hurt to breathe.

As ninth grade started I felt like it was time for it all to stop. Maybe I could run away or maybe I could kill myself. Either would be okay. I guess I was ready to give up.

That night in the cemetery I was at the end of my rope. It was so cold, and my fingers were numb as I reached out to trace the letters of my mother's name on the gravestone. I couldn't believe she was dead, really dead, and I'd never ever see her again. I wanted to see her so bad, I needed her. I needed a lot of things. I could feel the ache in my ribs and back from the last beating. I needed all the violence to stop. I couldn't take it anymore. The tears were threatening to fall, but they weren't yet. Then I heard my name. It was Joey. I thought Joey had written me off because I tried to take Angela with me. I thought everyone had written me off.

And when Joey came toward me I stood up and spun around and jerked away from him. I couldn't stand to be touched, not anymore. Not when every touch caused pain. Not after all those beatings, and I started to cry just a little, and I knew I was so damaged, beyond damaged.

"C'mon, let's go…" Joey said, still walking toward me, and I laughed and looked at him.

"Where am I gonna go, huh? Back home, to dad, so he could…"

"What? What does he do to you?" Joey said, and I looked down and looked away, the tears coming for real now.

"He hits you doesn't he?" Joey said, and I saw the deep concern in his eyes, and I wanted to tell him the truth, I just couldn't seem to say it.

"Doesn't he?" Joey said in a thick whisper, and I nodded, and let Joey hug me even though it hurt. It hurt my back and my ribs where I'd been kicked the most, and it hurt to be touched because it scared me. I cried even harder then, because now Joey knew the truth I'd tried so hard to hide and because being hugged was hurting me and I cringed inside of it, pulling away from him even as he hugged me tighter. I was so fucked up. I knew it. I knew I wasn't anywhere near normal.