I grip the edges of my sheets, laying upon an old bed. It is past midnight. I hear noises, though that’s not unusual; I always hear sounds at night. It may be my mother’s sobbing, my father’s pickup truck, my own subconscious whimpering, or the television from the other room. I rarely sleep at night, and if I do, it is only for a few hours.
Getting up, I cross the wood floors, and peek out of the window in my room, which is broken from when my father slammed my face against the glass when I was only six years old. I see my father’s truck pulling up on the dirt road that leads to our old house. He is drunk again, I can tell that from the way he wobbles back and forth, along with the beer bottle in his hand.
I have no bedroom door, as my father removed it when they moved into this house. I walk down the old, wooden stairs, and peer out our screen door. That is not a beer bottle in his hand. It is a gun. My eyes widen and I turn to run, slipping. I scream, as the screen door flies open. “Jesus, help me,” I cry.