Mornings in the apartment were absolutely horrible. They could go two different ways.

The first: everyone in the house ignores me, and denies my existence. Which, to be honest, wasn't the worst, but it felt bad to go unnoticed by people you lived with.

The second: Everyone in the house sees me, glares at me, then proceeds to talk about me as if I wasn't there. It was these verbal assaults that hurt me the most. Sticks and stones may break your bones, and words will always hurt. Always.

This morning, I'd hoped to go unnoticed, and ignored, but it turned out that my wishes were not granted. They said horrible things that I tried to ignore, but failed. I decided to skip breakfast, and just wait until we left for school. The car ride there, I was silent, squashed against the door in the backseat. And then we arrived at school, one of the other places I dreaded.

I got out of the car, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and trudged down the sidewalk, heading towards my first period class. I didn't dare look back at the car.

I sat down against a wall, waiting for the bell to ring. I hated this. I hated that I had to endure this, all of it. Why was this so hard for me? I wrapped my arms around myself, shielding my body from a cold that wasn't there. People walking by stared at me with sharp, judgmental glances that made me want to curl up into a shadow and hide. But alas, it would not be. I was here, in the open. A circus act for people to point and laugh at. 

 Finally, the bell signalling the start of first period rang, the end of the circus for a precious couple of hours, until it started up again at break. My first period was math, which would normally be okay as I didn't mind math, but I was in a class full of now-it-alls. They acted like they were never wrong, but they always were.

After first period, I had to trek all the way across campus to health. Of all my classes, health was the worst. The class itself was at capacity–it was filled to the brim with students. Students who all seemed to know each other, and, believe it or not, students who all loved George Jacobs. Who also happened to be in that class, so I was basically ignored. This normally wouldn't be a problem as I was used to being ignored, but I was seated right in the middle of the class, George Jacobs in front of me, his girlfriend behind me, and the rest of his posse on either side of me. I was sandwiched into a group of people that hated me, and the teacher either didn't notice or didn't care. She hated me, I was sure.

Aside from my unfortunate positioning in the classroom, we never learned anything in health. Our teacher went off on long, off-topic tangents that lasted the whole period until we were so behind in the curriculum that we couldn't even bother catching up. Forget about nutrition, let's talk about why our school doesn't have lights in the football field.

And the worst part of it all was that I couldn't drop out. Health was a required class to take, and I needed to take it, or I wouldn't graduate. I could, of course, take it junior or senior year, but I figured it would be better to just get it over with as a sophomore.

After health came ten minutes of torture between second and third period. They called it brunch. A sure-fire way to the depletion of my self confidence, which was already on the brink of extinction. I hid in the library as a way to escape. There was a little nook in between a bookshelf and the wall that had been designated as mine. Most of my time outside of class was spent here, hiding from the world surrounded by wonderful works of writing.

Perhaps the only thing in my day I was even remotely excited about was third period English class. One thing I had found out about myself this past few months was that I had a knack for writing. I loved to just sit down, and write. I would paint luxurious fantasy worlds with magic and a deep-rooted problem. I would twist together a story of fiction, depicting ordinary people and their struggle to rule the world. I would knit together poems, my favorite to write, with meanings so hidden and pure that I couldn't even think to show to someone. There was no one anyways.

Fourth period meant nothing good with P.E., and the start of it mean that I was barely fifty minutes from my death–lunch. I couldn't eat in the library, and I had no friends, so I had to find a secluded corner of the school to consume my sandwich in as little time as possible. This wasn't so bad, as long as I found a place that George Jacobs and his posse didn't know about, which was hard, as they knew just about every corner of the school. Sometimes, I just didn't eat my lunch, and went straight to the library. However, today I was extremely hungry from an especially grueling day in physical education.

After some extensive searching, I found a nice little forgotten corner of the school to eat and wallow in my misery. I zipped open my backpack, and rummaged around for my lunch.

It wasn't there.

I removed my books and binders, praying that maybe it had gotten squished at the bottom...

But, of course, it wasn't there. Fuming, I stuffed everything back in my backpack, and begrudgingly stood up. I must have left it in my locker.

Stupid. I was stupid. I should have made sure I had it before I found this lovely secluded spot. It was no use now, George Jacobs would definitely know I had been here, and I could never eat here again.

I reached my locker, and I kid you not, it took me five whole minutes just to open it. My lock just didn't want to unlock, even though I was sure I had the right code. Finally, once I was so frustrated I could burn through the lock, it opened with a click. I creaked open the metal door and...

Nothing.

And then I remembered.

I was stupid. I had slept in this morning after last night, and hadn't had time to make my lunch. Idiot. I was an idiot and I deserved to die.

Frustrated and angry with myself, I stalked down the long hall of lockers and through the quad to the library, the one place I could be alone and at peace. I walked through the rows of books until I found my little nook.

Only to find it occupied.

And not only was it occupied, my one spot of safety was taken by none other than George Jacobs. 

He smirked, an evil grin he saved for only me.

I suddenly wished that I had jumped last night on that bridge. I could have escaped. Because of all that I had to endure at the house and at school, the one thing I dreaded the most was seeing George Jacobs. Ever since elementary school, he had been that horrible voice in my head telling me to kill myself, that I wasn't worth it.

What was I, a poor little kid with glasses, compared to him?

I was nothing.

"You come to sit, Alley Rat?" he demanded. I didn't answer. "This is 'your' spot, right?" I looked at the ground. "Do you want it back?" He said, in a tone of mock pity, his face scrunching up as if he was talking to a baby. I couldn't take it, I needed him to go. This was the one spot I was free, safe. Building up the tiniest ounce of courage I could muster, I told him to go away, for I didn't care about him. He could mock me all he wanted, but he could not hurt me.

Or, that's what I imagined I would say, in my head, but what actually came out was a strangled stutter, making me sound like a desperate child.

"C-can-" I started

"Oh, what is that," He inquired, feigning interest, "Does the little alley rat want me to move?"

I just clenched my jaw in answer, looking at him with hurt in my eyes.

"Is the little baby boy sad?" He stood up, towering over me, and I was already tall. "Does he want his mommy? Oh, wait,"

No, no, no, I thought, Don't say it!

"You don't have one."

The blow hit me like a meteor, and I stumbled back, clearly reacting the way he wanted. He laughed at me, extracting another drop of my precious self-confidence. A barrage of memories, like shards of glass, tore through my head. I turned, and careened out of the library, needing to escape. I was being suffocated by a wall of crystal memory, pressing on wounds that were still fresh, still so new. Not even registering where my feet were taking me, I ran through the schoolyard, my backpack bouncing uncomfortably against my back. Soon I stopped, and slid down to a sitting position, my back against the wall. I tilted my head back, resting it on the cool wood of the building. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to close out the horrible memories. But I couldn't. They flooded back in a force so powerful, I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried, hold them back.

|–––––|

I wasn't sure I heard correctly, this man was who? I strained my ears, and even opened my rickety old door a little wider, trying to hear through the shouts between my mother and this inebriated man. I didn't dare leave my room though. Something kept my feet rooted in place. Something like fear.

But I heard it again, and It was enough to piece together not only my mother's history with this man, but mine.

This drunk, angry man was my father.

How dare he? How dare he come back after all these years? How dare he think that he could just waltz in through the door, hoping that the blood on his hands had been cleansed?

My hand rested on the doorknob, waiting, contemplating. Did I really want to face him? Was I really brave enough? After all he had done? Rage coursed through my veins, boiling my blood and taking over my brain.

I wrenched open the door, unaware that the shouting between my parents had stopped.

The man standing at the doorway was a good seven inches taller than my mother, his face was dirty and marred. Just how I remembered it. The smell of alcohol wafted to me, carried on a breeze through the open door. He was nothing but cruelty. The smile on his face showed no affection. Only rage, bitterness, and resentment. 

~

Sorry for another long chapter:/ I can get a litter trigger happy sometimes... :P

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