Scars

Hands shaking, I moved my hands across my arm. The scars were prominent in some places, barely visible in others. But they were there. Also visible was the discoloration. A bruise that had been there a while was just starting to fade. I held my arm up in the mirror and stared at the horror. No long-sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, or jacket would cover this up. Whenever someone touched my arm, it stung. I winced, but tried not to make it noticeable. I knew I couldn't go to school like this. I could always try to fake sick. It worked before. I put my pajama sleeve back down on my arm and walked back to my bedroom. A headache was coming, and I wasn't stopping it this time. 1

Ten minutes later, my father was pounding on the door. I turned over in time to see his belt coming off and down, hard. I winced as the metal clasp hit my rib cage. Again and again it came, as he yelled how irresponsible I was for not being grown up enough to wake up without an alarm. These extra bruises were a small price to pay for at least 2 extra days off. Now I had time to finish the homework due and run down to the store to get the food my father was missing. maybe he would be nicer if I did what I knew he wanted before he asked. When he left for work, I threw off my covers and walked to the mirror. I raised my shirt enough to see the bright red poking out from underneath. The skin was rising turning pink, purple, and blue. I decided to go to the store before I showered, meaning I had time to do the latter without my father wondering where I was when he got home.