I looked at the clock, 5:17.
I had 13 minutes until he would be home.
he was always suprisingly punctual.
I opened my closet door, and picked up my favorite book, keeping the moon, and sat down slowly.
I shut the door ever so softly, so my mother wouldn’t hear.
I turned on the small desk lamp I had brought in, and put a shirt in front of the crack under the door, so the light wouldn’t shine through.
I began reading, and the book felt like home.
Not this awful home that had me living in constant fear, but a better life, a life where I never had to be afraid.
I heard the front door burst open.
I heard mother say a sweet greeting, and him shove past her and bark about her awful house keeping skills.
I didn’t hear her responce, because she didnt dare say a word.
“Where’s that brat of yours?”
He snarled.
“I don’t know where Emily is.”
She said quetly.
“You don’t know where you’re own damn kid is?”
He screamed.
I had become so familiar with this routine, I knew what would happen next.
A crash.