I had a terrible nightmare, and I wake in a cold sweat, crying.
My hand gets my notebook and pen from my bedside table. I flip the light on and begin to write.
He's such an asshole, my Dad is. I was four years old when he first hit me. What kind of animal hits an innocent four year old? He abused me, and he looked forward to me coming home from school so he could beat me.
When I hit seven, he left for years.
The reminder that people aren't who they appear to be made me stay away from the little kids my age. I kept to myself, even at the age of seven. I didn't make any friends like normal people, I didn't have good grades. Dad took all of that. I would make up screaming for him to stop each night, and then Mom would cradle me against her chest as I cried myself to sleep, only to be awoken by yet another nightmare.
I thought I was getting better, and so did Mom and my younger sibling, but when I hit the age of ten, Dad came back. He beat me again, and my grades, which I'd managed to rise from straight A's, dropped to straight F's. Dad was so angry. He beat me even worse than he did when I was a kid.
"Stop moving!" he screams in my ear when I get knocked backward after taking a strong punch to the stomach. "You worthless child, get your ass back here!"
He broke my arm, and I screamed.
Mom let him back into the house because she thought he could change.
But he didn't. I believe people can change, but I don't think he can. He can't change. He's a boiling pit of hatred.
One night, when I was fourteen, Mom was working late. I was just getting out of the shower, tying a towel around my body dripping with moisture when he walked in the bathroom and told me to pretend to be like it.
He ripped my towel off, and I knew he was going to rape me. My little sister, she was eleven at this time, and she called the cops. He ran.
I didn't see him again until I was sixteen years old. He didn't try to rape me again, but he beat the shit out of me, and laughed as he did. I noticed though, that he didn't dare touch me when Mom was around. If Mom was around and she found out, she'd kill him. I knew that Mom was what I needed to keep me safe. I was used to wearing all long sleeves to hide the bruises. He didn't even touch my sister, but he loved hurting me. He looked forward to it. He started drinking. He drank up all of Mom's hard earned money, and then he left. I haven't seen him since.
I am seventeen years old and Mom ran out of money, so we moved with my sister. He doesn't know where we live. If he ever gets near me again, I don't know what I'll do.
I still wake up from nightmares, and when I do, I write what happened.
I just want to forget him. I don't even call him "Dad" anymore; I just call him by his first name. Now that I'm older and Mom fully understands what happened, she hates him with her whole heart and more.
All I can say as I hope he goes to hell.
I let out a long breath. It's already four thirty, so I shove my journal in my backpack and take a hot bath, and then I get ready for school. Prim and Scarlett are awake when I go upstairs, and it's already pretty late, so I ditch breakfast and we head to school.
…a…
"We have a new student in this class." My creative writing teacher says.
Everyone looks around, and I'm surprised when I see its Peeta. He's sitting right behind me and I didn't even see him. "So, I have a new assignment for you." He says.
What are you doing here? I pass a note to Peeta.
The school gave me drivers ED, and obviously I don't need it because I've got my license. I switched out and this was the only place open.
Do you even know how to write?
He smirks. I'll learn. That's what you do in school, you know. How's the teacher though?
I chew on my pen for a moment.
He's fucking insane and he sucks down three cokes per class, most likely he's got diabetes. He pretended to have a heart attack on the desk the other day and I'm shocked he didn't throw his back out. I personally think he sits there at his desk while we write and he watches porn all day.
Peeta laughs, and then tried to disguise it for a cough, but it's too late.
"Passing notes are we?" he asks.
"No." Peeta blurts.
"Yes you are. Who passed it first?" he asks.
"I did." Peeta says.
"No he didn't, I did." I shoot Peeta a look.
"Alright, how about you read it out loud?"
Oh shit.
Peeta's eyes go wide.
"Um…" I bite my lip.
"Come on, read it aloud." He says. "Come up to the front of the class and read it out loud."
Peeta stares at me. "That's really unnecessary." He says.
"Okay." I stand up. Peeta's eyes widen as I take the note out of his hand and walk to the front of the class. "It started when I asked Peeta 'why are you here' and he said 'The school gave me drivers ED, and obviously I don't need it because I've got my license. I switched out and this was the only place open.' and then I said 'Do you even know how to write?' and he said 'I'll learn. That's what you do in school, you know. How's the teacher though?' and then I replied with 'He's awesome.'"
"May I see it?" he asks.
"No, I need this paper; it has my homework on it. Sorry."
I sit back down in my seat and shove the paper deep in my bag.
He gives up. Peeta nails the back of my chair. "Good work."
I nod, but don't turn in his direction. "Now, those essays we wrote yesterday, the ones that I told you to write about anything and make is a story and make is interesting? How it's explicit so any words can be used? How about you pass them to someone to revise them and then turn them in?"
I grab my notebook and rip the story I wrote yesterday out of it and thrust the papers at Peeta.
"This is the assignment that is going to Barnes and Noble as a contest, correct?" a girl named Jasmine asks.
"Yes. These are the copies going to Barnes and Noble, but I'm going to read you some awesome stores of these before I submit them tomorrow after school."
I don't have anyone's to revise, so I wait patiently as the room falls into silence. I tap my fingers on my lap for a while. Peeta hands the papers back to me. I can see a weird look in his eyes. He wrote my name on it.
"Okay, are you guys done?" he asks. "Pass them up."
I hand my paper to the person in front of me and it gets passed up.
The bell rings, and we head to second period.
…..a…..
Peeta's been very quiet, and he's been acting really jumpy since first period.
"Katniss." My Creative Writing teacher says when I walk into the room as the bell rings the next day, Friday, finally.
"Yes?" I toss my bag in my chair. Peeta looks sick to his stomach.
"Did anyone help you with your paper?" he asks.
"No." I frown. "Why? Is it terrible? It was late when I wrote it because I honestly forgot-"
"No Katniss, it's excellent."
"Oh…thanks." I sit down.
"Okay, everyone be quiet." He orders. "I'm reading some papers today and you guys are going to say your comments and then the author will identify him or herself if they want to."
Everyone is paying attention.
He begins reading one, about a girl who loves to cook, and then one day she get murdered while cooking and her house burns down.
It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of.
"What's something that's effective or something the author needs to redo?"
I raise my hand, and feel myself embarrassed that nobody else does.
"Yes, Miss Everdeen." He says.
"Well…it's kind of confusing." I say. "Like, I get what happened and how she was murdered even though the author didn't really specify that she was murdered, but…it was in first person point of view, and the girl died and the story continued. If she's the one telling the story, how does she know the place burnt down when she died? Shouldn't it be implied? I mean…she lives alone and she was cooking…" I trail off.
"Yes, I was hoping someone would mention it."
Nobody says anything else, and the author is some girl whose name I don't know, she admits what she did was a mistake, and then the teacher reads another piece. It's good enough that nobody judges it, and then he sheepishly admits that he himself wrote it.
"Okay." He says.
He grabs the next paper. "This is the last one." He says. "We'll read more on Monday." He adds. He takes a deep breath and starts to read. "He's such an asshole, my Dad is. I was four years old when he first hit me. What kind of animal hits an innocent four year old? He abused me, and he looked forward to me coming home from school so he could beat me. When I hit seven, he left for years. The reminder that people aren't who they appear to be made me stay away from the little kids my age. I kept to myself, even at the age of seven. I didn't make any friends like normal people, I didn't have good grades. Dad took all of that. I would make up screaming for him to stop each night, and then Mom would cradle me against her chest as I cried myself to sleep, only to be awoken by yet another nightmare. I thought I was getting better, and so did Mom and my younger sibling, but when I hit the age of ten, Dad came back. He beat me again, and my grades, which I'd managed to rise from straight A's, dropped to straight F's. Dad was so angry. He beat me even worse than he did when I was a kid. "Stop moving!" he screams in my ear when I get knocked backward after taking a strong punch to the stomach. "You worthless child, get your ass back here!" He broke my arm, and I screamed. Mom let him back into the house because she thought he could change. But he didn't. I believe people can change, but I don't think he can. He can't change. He's a boiling pit of hatred. One night, when I was fourteen, Mom was working late. I was just getting out of the shower, tying a towel around my body dripping with moisture when he walked in the bathroom and told me to pretend to be like it. He ripped my towel off, and I knew he was going to rape me. My little sister, she was eleven at this time, and she called the cops. He ran. I didn't see him again until I was sixteen years old. He didn't try to rape me again, but he beat the shit out of me, and laughed as he did. I noticed though, that he didn't dare touch me when Mom was around. If Mom was around and she found out, she'd kill him. I knew that Mom was what I needed to keep me safe. I was used to wearing all long sleeves to hide the bruises. He didn't even touch my sister, but he loved hurting me. He looked forward to it. He started drinking. He drank up all of Mom's hard earned money, and then he left. I haven't seen him since. I am seventeen years old and Mom ran out of money, so we moved with my sister. He doesn't know where we live. If he ever gets near me again, I don't know what I'll do. I still wake up from nightmares, and when I do, I write what happened. I just want to forget him. I don't even call him "Dad" anymore; I just call him by his first name. Now that I'm older and Mom fully understands what happened, she hates him with her whole heart and more. All I can say as I hope he goes to hell."
I think I'm going to pass out.
I'm about to burst into tears.
That was the wrong paper! I turned in the wrong paper! That was real about Ethan! Peeta read it! He read it to the whole class!
"Does anyone have something they would like to say?" Mr. Paylor asks.
Someone's hand shoots right up into the air.
"Yes, Chrystal?"
"That was…it was so good! The emotion was amazing and it's like the writer has actually been through all of that! It was incredible! I wish that we knew what the person's name was though, but other than that, it was so good that it literally took my breath away."
"It was amazing." Someone says.
"Raise your hands if you think the author should have put the girls name."
Everyone raises their hand.
"Would the author like to identify him or herself?"
I might as well do it.
Slowly, I raise my hand, and Peeta starts clapping loudly until everyone else does. I shoot him a look, and I think he knows that I didn't mean to turn that in.
"Katniss," Mr. Paylor says. "Did you purposely not put the authors name?"
Lie! I have to lie!
"I actually forgot."
"So she has a name?" he asks.
"Yes."
"What's her name?"
Fuck! Her name is Katniss! It's me! It's my abusive father!
"Kelsey." I blurt. "Kelsey Walker."
"Kelsey." He nods. "It fits. Very good. I think you have a strong chance of winning this contest."
The bell rings, and I'm the first one out of the door. Peeta has to jog to keep up with me, and he grabs my hand and spins me around. "Let's go home."
