As I sat in bed that night, my throat sore and filled with the taste of my own bile, I wondered if I was making the right decision. Going to school and all.

Dad didn’t like it, and when he didn’t like things, he was worse and worse. His anger was unpredictable. If he was mad and you even talked while eating dinner, he’d take off his belt right then and there and beat you until you were half conscious.

And you couldn’t stop him. No matter how hard you tried.

When I was younger, I had thought about running away with Charlie. Maybe we could have walked all the way to Grandma’s house. But Grandma was dead now and Grandpa lived in Arizona. That wasn’t an option.

And dad didn't let us call any relatives or friends. We didn't even have phones.

My eyes wouldn’t close, no matter how tired I was. I was laid down on my stomach so my bed wouldn’t get blood on it from my back.

Dad had not held back when he beat us. The scars he left had bled heavily, and they showed no signs of stopping.

I had grown numb to the pain by now.

But my mind wouldn’t shut down.

Why does Austin hate me? I didn’t do anything to him. Now I’m gonna get beaten at school and at home. How can I stop Austin? I can’t beat him back. WHAT CAN I DO?

My head hurt from thinking.

I woke up, and the familiar constricting of my throat greeted me. I groaned. It was gonna be a long day.

I got up and stretched and pounded my chest, as if that would make the feeling go away. It didn’t help at all. I looked around for my medicine, the feeling in my chest increasing. But I didn’t panic, because that would make the feeling increase tenfold.

I slipped on a shirt and  jeans and ruffled my hair in the mirror. A tired face looked back at me.