Someone Wake Me Up

My head snapped off the wall I was just slammed into, my vision began to tunnel, but i knew if i passed out now that i wouldn’t come back around. So I found some hidden will to live and brought myself back to full consciousness.
"Talk tome like that again young lady and you’ll be sorry." his whisper carried the message through my ringing head.
"Yes sir, never again sir." I said as strongly as I could manage, but not really achieving anything better than a croak.
"That’s what I thought." he said as he threw me down on the couch. I bounced twice, but luckily stayed on the worn out seating.
"Go do your homework." he snapped.
"Yes sir, right away sir." I scrambled up, ignoring the muscles that protested and the room that was currently spinning wildly.
It was still summer, but you DONT argue with James when he’s high, drunk, or both. (He’s currently both.) But anyways, he thinks that I go to school everyday of the year, so everyday I go to the school at 6 am (with $2 for lunch, some books, and a change of clothes) and have to be back by 6 pm. I’m on my own all day, if school isn’t in session that is.
I lay down on my bed, springs threatening to break through the last layer of material. I pulled out some random books and scribbled on some paper to make sure that it looked like I was working. Then I grabbed my mirror and went to my personal bathroom.
I examined the 5 new bruises on my face, triple checked that my head wasn’t bleeding still, and cleaned/bandaged my waist, arms, and cheeks. I probably shouldn’t go to sleep for a few hours, so i guess ill have to stay up and draw.
You would wonder how I can stand such torture without a single tear...its called training. I know that tears near James make everything way worse for me. (I also noticed that he’s getting more violent, but that’s besides the point)
you would wonder why I don’t try to get myself out of the situation...its because I cant. I’m trapped.
You see, James is my biological father. My mom was murdered right in front of me when I was 4. The courts didn’t really care, and threw me in with him without any type of check.
Once when I was 10 I tried to call the cops, but that did nothing for me at all. My dad just said I fell down the 2 flights of stairs (he really pushed me) and was about to go take me to the doctor, but i freaked out and said that he pushed me (WHICH IS TRUE!!!) so of course, the police sided with him, no one to believe the little girl that just fell.
What really happened was that I was in the way of his bathroom door, so he pushed me out of his way (which was down the stairs) and just left me there as I cried and screamed. The only reason I went to the doctor was because the police said that they would check...they didn’t. So my dad never took me back.
James actually took my cast off for me, three months too early, and when he took it off he gashed my arm from wrist to elbow. Of course it hurt so I cried. All he said was "Shut up crying, and clean up that blood on the floor." Right then I knew that I had to do a lot to try and survive my life. I had to change some things, become stronger.
So i obeyed, of course, I was sure of what he as capable of doing to me. After I was done I wrapped my arm in a dish towel and found something that would keep my cast shut.
The next four months I would wear that cast whenever I wasn’t around him. And when I was, and the cast was off, I’d do everything I could to protect that arm as he beat me.
I’m 17 now, a senior in high school, completely use to getting pushed around and bullied by everyone. James cutting me with a knife is that only new thing. i know not to let it show how bad it hurts when he does it, because i know that it will only get me cut more.
Thinking about my past is still difficult for me...
I pulled out the iPod i found 2 years ago at school in the "lost and found." (The music is really different, it more heavy, but I actually kind of like it a lot.) I turned to the artist The Used and played through their albums. I grabbed the razor that I took off of one of my disposable shaving razors. It was flimsy, sure, but very sharp and sure of its cuts. I sliced three clean likes on my writs, over old razor cut scars.
You would think it’s really stupid, since I just got the shit beat out of me, I don’t blame you, but this is when I can cry. This is when I release the pent or anger, pain, and hurt.
I watched as the blood flowed, thick with my tears and pain. I wrapped my wrist and cleaned up my mess.
I climbed back into bed (trying to ignore how the springs seem to always find every bruise, cut, and sore spot on my body to press against) and began to draw my "happy place" for the next three hours or so. Then I drifted into a light sleep, dreading every second as it ticked closer to 5 am.