APKoH: Ch 1: Story of this Damned Life

Is falling down harder than getting up? Isn't it easier to just lie down and soak up the pain that seems to have fallen with me here in this dark place? Or is it better to fight my way out; to not let the shadows take me? I have no answer. No matter how simple the question that comes across my mind I can't seem form one that makes any sense.

No sense, I muse to myself, story of my damn life.

Now that I think about it, I guess this really is the story of my “damn life”. I sit here at the computer, not sure how to present to you my little tale. I'm not even sure where to start. How about the beginning? What the hell, why not? We'll start there.

First off, my name is Lydia Rozelle. I'm a sophomore in high school, and it totally sucks. The fact that it's a public school doesn't help. There's too many people. I hate people, and as long as I keep at a distance, they don't bother me. All the cliques of nerds, jocks, pretty girls, and emo kids huddle up together at the beginning of freshman year and never expand their so called social lives out of the known comfort of their “friends”.

Friends. The thought makes me laugh.

I'm going to pause there for a second and explain the last few sentences. I have a small amount of human beings that I spend a good deal of my spare time with. Those are people, with completely separate lives, and to whom I have no real emotional connection. Those are nowhere near my standards for being my “friend”. Real friends answer the phone when you call at three in the morning because you have no one else to go to. Real friends are constant, always there to talk to, and love you in spite of your flaws. Those are real friends. I have none. In my mind, I have no need for them.

Anyways, back to the story. Everyday is the same: Wake up, go to school, avoid people, go home, repeat. Despite subtle variations that occur in my day from time to time, nothing really changes, and I like that. Change is scary. Just the thought of stepping out of the comfort zone that is my daily routine makes me feel a little sick.

My tale is common for a girl my age: drunk dad, abused mom, a little sister who doesn't understand, all stuffed into about 900 square feet of my own personal hell. Lovely, isn't it? Let me answer that for you. Not in the least. That's why I call it “my own personal hell”. Hell isn't full of fun and delights. You should have known that already. It's a place reserved for the sinners of this world, or so I've heard, but I have done absolutely nothing to deserve the pain my father puts us through. He is the reason I fell to this dark place I am in now, trying to decide if I should get up, or just lie in the growing pool of my own self-depreciation.

It all starts and ends with him. In the novel of my sub-par life, I am the protagonist, and he is the antagonist. In my video game of an existence, I am the hero, and he is the villain. Had enough cliche's? Fine, in other words, he fucked up and the rest of my family paid the price.

My dad's been drinking as long as I can remember. Longer probably, but I've only seen about 17 years of his little problem. Okay, so “little problem” might be a bit of an understatement. He's an incredibly abusive alcoholic. During that 17 years I've learned to hate the man that has presented him self as a “father” to me. That man has done nothing to deserve the position of the man most of you people call Dad, and go to baseball games with. The man that used to read stories with you at night, tuck you in, and check for the monsters under your bed.

I had no stories, I was never tucked in, and no one looked for monsters under my bed.

My dad was the monster under my bed.