I laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity, thinking about another hellish night. My body ached and I’m positive there were bruises, but I was simply too afraid to look. I came home late last night, only because of filling in a night shift, but my father never believed me.
He would always say, ‘you were going to leave me just like your slutty mother did’ before hitting me. Every night, I literally lost track of how many slaps to the face I received from my own father.
I lightly touched my cheek, flinching at the pain. He slapped me so hard that even the gentlest touch felt excruciating. Despite the pain, I should be used to it by now. Ever since mom left us when I turned nine, last night is like a daily routine for him. It didn’t start off like this, but as time passed by, he got worse.
Once he lost his job, he started drinking heavy and that’s when things fell apart for both of us. I used to be able to help him feel better when he was sad, but there’s only two things that he does on a daily basis: drink and getting angry. I don’t blame him all the time because he usually apologizes afterwards, but I’ve gotten to a point where I can’t handle it. I should leave, but he’s my father and I promised I wouldn’t leave him no matter what.
Life gets tough and we all have to deal with shit, but only one person can determine how to handle the situation: yourself.
I sighed and got out of bed. My legs felt weak and I had to grip the headboard to be able to steady myself. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t fully realize how disgraceful I look. The bruises on my face stuck out like a sore thumb. I loved my father, but God damn it. He’s a fucking asshole.
I noticed the white envelope on my bed and gasped. I almost forgot to hide my money from my father. I quickly placed it under my mattress and made my bed. If there was anything I could hide from my father, it would be my money. I used to be generous and give him the money, but I ended that shit once I realized he solely spent it on alcohol and strip clubs.
Taking a shower was pain itself, but getting dressed felt merely impossible to do. I put on a pair of high waist black skinny jeans that had holes in the knees with a red and black flannel shirt and a pair of beat up black Converse.
I made sure I quickly applied a layer of foundation to hide the bruises on my face and since I knew I was already running late, I French braided my hair. I didn’t have the time to fancy myself up for school. It was nearly pointless.
I skipped out on breakfast as usual ad caught the bus just in time to get to school although I already knew I missed half of the class.
Once I got dropped off, I ran down the hall to my classroom and by the time I got there, I was already out of breath before opening the door. All eyes landed on me as usual, including my teacher’s.
As I apologized, my teacher cut me off mid-sentence. “Detention, Rosita.”