To make matters worse she continued, “Futureless…useless…Makes me sick for oxygen to be wasted on-”

“SHUT UP!” I finally screamed, “Shutupshutupshutup.”

Then Mother gave me the glare. The glare that kept me up at night. The glare that made me wish Dad didn’t work late nights. The glare. “What?” She began.

“I-I-I-well-you-”

“Did you just talk back to me?”

“Well-you-me-”

“Answer. The. Damn. Question. Jameson.”

“Yes,” I squeaked. My mother then, calmly, grabbed a handful of my hair. She then threw me to the ground, only she didn’t let go of her grip. So a big handful of my hair was ripped out. Mother dropped it on the ground beside where I fell, walked out the door, locking it from the outside.

I slowly crawled to the door leading to the balconey, sobbing quietly while holding that handful of my hair.

“Brent…” I quietly whispered, “Help me. I hurt.”