When you read a story about someone who runs away, it's usually about how it all ends up all right in the end. That their life got better and it's all sunshine now. Not this time. I ran and now I'm trapped. I'm not sure who would be reading this now, but maybe it means I got out? I guess I'm writing this for my own sake. How did I get to be where I am? Looking at my own glaring mistakes.
My life wasn't so dark. I remember a time when it was light. My family was poor, it was hard to keep food on the table kind of poor. I was loved though. My mother was so sweet and she cared for me and my siblings with everything she had. My father worked so hard for us, I would run to him when he came home. His princess he would call me. I had an older brother, completely brilliant but a bit different. His head in the clouds but clearly meant for more than our small village. My little sister was the darling baby with her golden hair and large blue eyes. I was plain, but that was fine by me. I worked hard alongside our mother, learned all about how to cook, clean, and run the household. This was my life and I was so happy. Things changed once my father got hurt. He stepped on a nail of all things. That wasn't so bad, we got by while he healed. The problem was that he was bored and he started to drink.
It started small, beer after dinner. He never went to the tavern so it didn't seem so bad. He was home, and sometimes he was just silly. This went on for about six years. Slowly he drank more and more, and he switched to liquor. I was so angry, I used point it out. Not let him hide the stuff from my mom. This was where my mistakes began. I made him angry. He never really hit me, but I think the wheels began to turn. That I was getting older and he could get me out of the house. Then his opportunity came.