Feet Don't Fail Me Now.

The same way I wake up every other day.

The sound of glass shattering.
The stench of beer, vodka, and weed.
The loud pleas of 'Leave him alone.' that echo throughout the thin hallways.
The feeling of my fathers breath ghosting over my throat. Slowly descending to my chest, then to my naval. His breath hovering over the draw-string of my flannel pajama pants as his clammy hands shimmy my pants, and black boxers, to my ankle before flipping me over to my stomach.

The Normal Morning


Bruises; Pink, Black, Blue, Brown. Multicolors.

Dabbing the medical sponge into the cover up, That my mother bought me, I greedly applied it to areas around my face.

'Why wouldn't you want people to know that your father raped and beat you daily?'

Looking at my face there were what one would say 'wrinkles' replacing the bruised that once colored my face. Now being caked in a oily make-up.

My bare chest withheld deep purple marks. Hickies. 'Your father gave you hickies.

The sound of glass shattering, again, cupboards being slammed shut, and my name being echoed followed by the word 'school' made me flee the bathroom without a second glance.


Two words.
Lunch.
And
Alone.

I'll always be alone. I don't think I have ever had an acquaintance. Let alone a friend. It's senior year of highschool. I have always sat at the empty table that was pelted with trash. That, or in the library.
Reading.
Writing song lyrics.
Doodling on my arms.
I was the schools loner. And I was perfectly fine with that.

So, when my name was called out -not 'Peter' but 'Pete'- I sorta spit my lunch out in complete and utter shock. Not trusting my voice, knowing it would be gruff from the lack of use, I looked up at the large stalky shadow that was hovering about my lunch. 'If thats what you even call a Apple that would probably be up-chucked from a beating'

My breath hitched in my throat.

Jakob.

The schools quarter back. Of course I would believe the classic highschool cliche' of him being a bully that victimizes all the people weaker than him, like me. When truth was, all he wanted was for me to tutor him. Also another cliche'.

I reluctantly agreed, forcing a smile onto my acking face as his enormous hand clasped my shoulder before asking who's house we would go to. I, of course, huredly said his house. He quirked a eye-brow, but didn't comment at my UN-easiness.


We rode to his house in his jeep.
He offered me food.
I denied. I already knew the food would be forced out of me. No need to waste their food.
He gave me a look before raising one arm.
I flinched.
He gave me another look before he stoped stretching.
He got up, walked away, and returned a moment later with a damp wash cloth.
He rid my face of the make-up, and made a unhuman noise before calling his mom is.
She came into the room, made the same noise, and said she was going to call child protective agency.
I quickly said that I was jumped. That if they needed to, they could ask my mom.


As I entered the screen door to my house, a beer bottle collided with my head.

That's when I decided it.
I was gonna run-away.

As far away as I possibly could, which might not be that far away.