((..::~*Broken Inside*~::..)) Part One

I was alone in my room, playing my bass when he burst in. My dad had just gotten home from work, as a truck driver, and he wasn't in a good mood.
"JADE!" He yelled. I opened my eyes and pulled off my headphones.
"Dad," I replied coolly.
"WHY ARE YOU NOT MAKING DINNER?!?! YOU ARE A SPOILED BRAT, AND THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS TO HELP AROUND THE HOUSE ONCE IN A WHILE." He yelled, slamming his fist down on my knee. I yelped in pain and squirmed off my bed.

I was in fact, not a spoiled brat. He just seemed to think so because once in a while I like to be alone with my music. Ever since my mom died of cancer a year and a half ago, he'd been abusing me, verbally, and physically.
"Dad," I said, standing up. "I just finnished my homework. I was just tuning my bass before-"
"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR BLOODY MUSIC! I WORK HARD ALL DAY, I PAY BILLS FOR ELECTRICITY, WATER, HEATING, AND SCHOOL FOR YOU, AND THE ONLY THING I EXPECT IN RETURN FROM YOU IS DINNER TO BE ON THE TABLE BY THE TIME I GET HOME, AND THE HOUSE IN DECENT ORDER!" He roared. "NOW GET YOUR LAZY BUTT OFF THE FLOOR AND GET MOVING!"

This was what it was like pretty much every night, and I was used to it. I scampered down into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Two bottles of beer, mayonaise, and an overripe kiwi.
"I'M GOING OUT TO GET FOOD!" I yelled to no one in particular, and I bolted out of there.

I found my slightly rusty ten speed lying outside in the bushes and sped away, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my leg from where he had struck me. While I rode along, thoughts raced through my mind.

Why can't I just have a normal family? A mom, dad, and maybe a brother. I just wish I could be happy. When my mom died, dad just turned into a completely different person, it was like part of HIM died along with mom....

I pulled up in front of Taco Bell, and I ordered two tacos to go. It was pretty much all I could afford. I pulled two bucks out of my wallet and handed them to the lady.
"Have a nice day," she said as she anded me the bag.
As if.
I can't stay out too long, otherwise when I get home dad will hurt me again. Not that this was new, my arms and legs are covered in bruises and cuts from where he's hit and cut me. There are also marks of my own... on the inside of my wrists. To me, phyical pain hurts less than emotional pain, so I hurt myself, just to take my mind off it.

I pull up in front of my house again, and my dad is waiting there, standing on the front porch. I drop my bike, and jump the steps of the porch. I try to shove past him, but he grabs my arm and pulls me towards him. His face is inches from my own, and his hot heavy breath reeks of beer. He doesn't say a word, he just stands there, squeezing my arm until I think it'll fall off from lack of blood circulation. Finally, I break away from his grasp amd drop the bag at his feet. He steps aside, and I run up to my room.

The needle is waiting for me. I light a match and sterilize the needle, watching the flame lick at the thin rod of metal. I extinguish the match and hold the needle up to the light, before bringing it down swiftly and scraping it across my wrist, criss crossing by my wristbone. Immediately, blood seeps through the cuts, dripping down my arm. It stings, but for the brief moment, I'm not thinking about anything else. Only the stinging pain of the needle. I grasp it with my other hand and do the same to my other arm. Being this my right hand, it is unsteady, cuz I'm left handed. Instead of merely slitting, it is shoved deeply into my wrist, and stays there.

I look at it for a moment, before nearly passing out from the pain it brought. I wrench it out of my arm, and sit there, on the edge of my bed, looking at the blood dripping down the needle, before if fell off in a large drop and lands on my leg. It takes me a moment to recognize the tears streaming down my face. I stand up. Pocketng the needle, I grab my backpack and empty it of what textbooks it holds. I fill it with clothes, power bars, and water bottles.

I cant take it anymore. I enter my bathroom and grab the package of hair dye I've hidden on the way. I wet my hair in the sink, and grab my scissors. I cut it to my shoulders and try my best to layer it. It looks like a mad axe murderer came after it in my sleep, but it will have to work. I look at the ground where 15 inches of hair lie. I sweep it up and shove it in the trash can. I then dye it from it's natural black shade to brown no.47. I stare at myself in the mirror and see my tears again. I pull on my black hoodie, put on my un-worn running shoes, and open the door to my dads room. Its empty, and I know he's down in the living room, drinking away his pain.

I hunt around for a bit, and collect all the money I can find, and add it to my own coming to a total of $274.92 in a series of tens, twenties, and change. My eyeliner is bleeding, and I already look like a wreck, but I don't care. I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, and exit out the back door, with no intention of returning.