(Ali's POV)

*FLASHBACK*

"I didn't take anything!" I yelled at my drunken father. Smack. 

"Shut up you worthless b*tch!" he yelled, waking my mother.

She came in and saw what was going on. I knew everything had just gotten a whole lot worse. Instead of helping me, she helped him - with getting drunk, getting high, getting angry. It was a constant struggle. I wish I could just disappear. 

"What'd the little brat do this time?" her words slurred and breath tainted with vodka.

She stumbled forward while my dad made up some story about me stealing money from his wallet. He and I both know it's not true but he'd rather blame me for the missing cash then admit that his addiction had gotten so bad that his own memories were escaping his dulled mind. 

My mom shoved me to the ground. "What the hell gives you the right to take from us?" She stumbled slightly, catching herself on the arm of our couch. "We feed you, we give you a roof. And you think you can jushhh.. take from us?" 

The leopard print tip of my mother's shoe came towards my face. There was a stomach churning crack and then something wet covered my face. Unbearable pain spread throughout my body and then my vision blurred. The slurred, degrading words of Susan and William Mason went quiet and then my consciousness gave out completely. I was in the beautiful silence of unconsciousness. My only safe haven.

*END OF FLASHBACK*

I was woken from my sleep when Briell came in. My cries had probably gotten her attention from the other room. I wasn't surprised when she locked the door and pulled me into her. This was - I'm ashamed to say - a regular occurrence. Briell was Mrs. Baillie or, as I like to say, the B*tch's daughter. After CPS had finally picked up on my parent's abuse after some concerned neighbors called the police, I was brought to Briell and Mrs. Baillie's group home. My social worker couldn't find me a foster home when they first got ahold of me so my only two options were juvenile detention or a group home. She thought the group home would be a better fit. Go figure.

I didn't notice that I was crying until I felt the tears fall to my bare hands. I quickly wiped them away and began trying to calm my breathing. Anxiety was just one of the reminders of my parents and my unfortunate upbringing that I was cursed with as well as some PTSD. Those two combined usually meant flashbacks or night terrors followed by panic attacks. Briell and I were getting pretty good at calming the attacks as long as they were caught early enough. 

"It's okay, there's nothing to worry about," Briell says, "Remember your breathing. Legs out, just like that. Now found something to focus on. You focused?" I nod slightly as I stare into the tips of my feet. "Good, now breathe in... One, two, three, four... and out... One, two, three..." She does this a few more times, counting the seconds of my breathing. 

It takes a few minutes, I'm not sure how many, but eventually my breathing calms and my eyes are dry of tears. Briell squeezes my hand and asks if I'm ok. I don't respond, just squeeze her hand back and nod once. She gets up to leave, she knows I prefer to be alone after an attack. Just before she closes the door, Briell turns back around. 

"We have visitors coming tomorrow." I sat there motionless as she started to the door; I know that by 'visitors' she means potential foster or adoptive parents. Mrs. Baillie's is one of few group homes that hosts parents to come and meet foster kids. Most of the time, the respective social workers will hunt out potential parents themselves and the process goes from there. 

Briell speaks again, "Not all people are like the others, some are nice, Ali." With that, she left.

Oh, but how can I be sure.

I begin to sing quietly to myself, repeating the words of Avril Levine's Smile which I taught myself sometime last year, right before my 13th birthday. The words spoke to me when I first heard them playing from Briell's iPod while she braided my hair. 

I always sing that when I'm sad or scared. It makes what little hope I have shine through and it some how lets me know that whatever is coming will be over at one point whether I become strong enough to overcome it or it becomes strong enough to overcome me.

Letting out a sigh of relief, I fall onto my cardboard-like bed. I stared into the ceiling trying to find shapes in the plaster until my eyes grew too heavy to refocus them. After that, I fell into a dreamless sleep. Thank God. I don't think I could handle another nightmarish memory.

-Author's Note-

I'm soooo sorry about the short chapter but they will get longer.