I woke up feeling absolutely terrible. My head pounded, I was drenched in sweat, and my throat felt so incredibly dry that ten cups of water wasn’t going to cut it- more like nine gallons. I was obviously sick. But I can’t skip school.

I downed a little medicine to ease my headache, then devoured my breakfast and biked quickly to school. It only got worse as the day went on. By the time I had made dinner, I was beginning to get alarmed, so I grabbed a thermometer (it took me about fifteen minutes to find, too) and found that I had a fever of 102. Okay, that was it. I had to get sleep- now. As soon as I had eaten, I went to my room. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, I felt a hand on my shoulder- my father’s.

“Dad?”

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?”

There he went again. My parents don’t call me by first name. It’s “boy,” “that child,” “him,” and et cetera. I gulped. He had just been drinking- I could smell that pretty easily- and he was totally out of it. Crap.

“I…”

“You good for nothing child.” He dragged me to the wall, and I knew what would happen next. I forced myself to not cry out as he lashed at me. This happens often, and for no good reason. But there’s nothing I can do but endure whatever is dumped onto me. One of these days, he’s going to beat me bloody. This is bad enough. I bore the pain and agony silently, wincing inside my mind. As I was facing the wall, I couldn’t see my father’s expression, and I had no way to tell how angry he really was.

Wordlessly, he left, walking drunkenly. Shaking, I quickly sought refuge in my room, slamming the door on the absolute nightmare and glancing at the back of my legs before studying them intently. Ouch. Seeing the wounds stung. They were a physical reminder of being an object of abuse, merely being there, and nothing more. I didn’t want to cry in front of my father- I never cry in the presence of other people. Then again, I hardly cry at all. But now, I finally cracked and allowed the tears to find silently, sliding down my cheeks and pelting the carpet. There would be a damp spot there later, but I didn’t care. I just wallowed in my own misery.

Why was this happening? Why am I so hated- by my parents, by my peers, by myself? Why are things this way? Why?

I closed my eyes, trying to blink so that I could see. At least I still felt emotion. At least I still had the ability to cry- that hadn’t been robbed from me- not yet. It could be any day, but I still had that to hold onto. That wasn’t very comforting, but I would have to make do.

Where was my mother in all of this? Who was I supposed to go to now, when all I had was myself? One is such a small, lonely number. I can’t stand it sometimes. But it’s a fact that I can’t change.

I’ll just have to hold everything in my heart- all these unexplainable emotions and being too proud to get help- not that I have much to be proud of. But it’s just my personality- I hate relying on other people. I always have and I always will. Maybe I do need help- a lot of it.

But there was absolutely no way in the world that I would ever, ever admit that out loud- or act on it.