A memory from 11 years ago...

I hear the sound of pounding hot water blasting into a faded yellow tub, the click of the stopper switching from a bath to a shower, the sprinkling drops of water thudding against the ocean themed curtain, like a light summer rain, innocent and free. “It's time.” I tell myself. I blink back my burning tears, each one feeling as hot as a coal as they slide effortlessly down my cheeks. I get myself to stifle a small panic attack. My chest is heavy with pain. I hug myself until my arms start to weaken, because if I don't I know I will get sick again(which could mean a longer shower). I squeeze my eyes closed, my head is pounding as hard as a nob on a pressure cooker.

I know that the condensation is forming on the bathroom mirror, and that when I walk into the room I will get slammed with the artificial melon scent of children's body wash. I try not think of what will happen tonight, especially after my inability to behave the night before.“If I listen tonight,” I whisper quietly to my stuffed animals, “maybe things will be easier, quicker.” “Get in here!” I hear his voice shooting at me, each word hitting me, causing a flesh wound. I look out the window, into the darkening sky and the boundless road ahead, but I stop myself. Even if I did get away, I wouldn't get far. I know that if I ran away now it would just make things worse.

I deeply inhale, and then slowly exhale. I uncover myself from the safety of my blankets and say goodbye to my polyester filled friends. “I will be okay,” I reassure them. I climb down the six white latter rungs of my bunk bed. Every night I automatically count down. 6..5..4..3..2.. I hold my breath, 1. Five steps out the door, ten steps past my sisters room. One right turn. It is not only the steaming hot air that causes me to catch my breath, but it is the realization of knowing what is waiting for me in there. A sliver of light streams onto the dark barren hall through the cracked bathroom door. I look around the small room, my eyes landing on the toilet seat, where the solid wooden back scratcher lies. I cringe and hold back a shudder from the pain of my bruised shoulder the night before. “I will listen.” I tell him, but silently order myself to do so like a lifeless robot. He grabs my arm and shuts the door. “Yes, you will,” he explains with a sickening grin plastered on his face.