"HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO FUCKING TELL YOU! DON'T EVER INVITE ANYONE WITHOUT MY GODDAMN PERMISSION."

"I-I'm sorry, baby, please—"

"Oh, cut the sorry crap, you bitch."

I draw a line straight down with a piece of chalk on my wall, marking it the 1,789th time Mom and Dad started to fight again. I pull my knees to my chest, hearing her squeal and beg for mercy as he slaps her across the face with his wedding ring. I stare at the four walls of my bedroom that protect me from their screams, fights, crying, his snoring.

I feel safe here.

I blast the volume on my headphones loud enough to cover her screams. Just hearing her scream and fight scares me to death. In my dreams, I see Mom on the floor, in a pool of blood while Dad stands over her, his hands bloody and holding a knife. And I scream as he strikes at me repeatedly. I rock back and forth, scared, oh so scared, of him. I am scared he's going to ki—

I can't think that. I just can't.

I swallow some of the water I keep in my room, and flinch hearing the sound of her hitting the stairs. Dad's screaming break through the music, and I take off my headphones and go outside. The hallways are horrifying. Dried blood smears the wall, where the wallpaper is slowly peeling off like dead skin. Picture frames of me when I was a baby are tilted or on the floor, broken glass leading a trail for the bathroom, Mom or Dad's bedroom (because they don't sleep in the same room together), and bottles of Corona and Bud Light litters the floor and the stairs. I'm glad I have on socks to make sure I don't get cut and get screamed at by Dad.

This house did get fixed about three years ago, when Dad showed signs of being better. A better husband, father, everything of the complete opposite he was.

Before I make a move to walk on the DeathHallway, I hear the faintest sound of a door knocking.

Someone's here to complain about the noise.

Fear and despair sweeps through my blood like a fast Metro train, and I run over to the railing across the stairs and slide down, hoping they didn't call the cops. Please don't call the cops . . .

"Hey, Fall, open the goddamn door, will ya?" Dad shouts at me as I land on my feet. Glass breaks down the hall. Mom must've crashed into the body length mirror. Or the dresser.

"Y-yes," I say, not even caring that he doesn't fix my name and call me Autumn, the name Mom chose me. I look through the peephole, and see it's our next door neighbor, Mrs. De Maria. She always talks to Mom every Tuesday and helps me with my homework.

"It's our neighbor!" I call out.

"Let her in." he orders, and disappears in the hall.

I sigh, and open the door to look up at her, considering the fact she's so tall I'm afraid she'll bump her head on the way in. She has long brown-black hair that is starting to have a gray streak right in the middle of her head, deep brown skin, a shade lighter than mine, and a smile so warm it could take out any darkness.

"Hola, mija. Como estàs?" she asks. She's testing me if I know from studying with her this summer to prepare me for Spanish this upcoming junior year.

"Okay. Y tú?" I say, motioning for her to walk in.

"Bien, Bien." She waves her hand carelessly, and looks around the house, and sits down on the slightly bloody couch. I wince. I should have cleaned it up. "Donde està tu madre?"

"Mom's in her bedroom. Decanse. Ella es muy cansado."

"Your father?" Mrs. De María asks.

"Using the punching bag, again." I flinch, but she barely notices it. I have to find out what she wants so she can leave. If she sees one thing about the house gone wrong, or sees Mom bloody and hurt, I am sent to a foster care, or in relative's custody. "You know how he is. Mr. Wrestler." That part I say is true. Dad is—or should I say was—a professional wrestler, until he decided to stop, by Mom being pregnant with, you guessed it, me.

"I see. I came to ask if you know about the noise. It sounded like a mugging in progress, chica."

"Oh."

"You didn't hear it?"

"Sorry," I stand near the kitchen counter, shaking my head. I wave my earbuds around me. "Music."

"Just like my niece and nephew. Always listening to that hip-hop music and such." She stares at me with her big brown eyes. "Well, if you do listen out for the noise, please tell them to stop, or I shall."

"Okay. Would you like something to drink?"

Mrs. De María shakes her head, and gets up from the couch. "Lo siento, mija. I'm swarmed with chores. My daughter is coming with her children this weekend for me to watch over—big schoolboard meeting—in an hour, and I cannot stay a minute longer."

And I do not want to stay here anymore than she does. "May I come with you?"

Tilting her head, she questions why do I want to come to her pigsty of a house.

Because I do not want to be in the house right now, where I hear Mom scream and cry and Dad yells at me to clean up the blood and her, also, if I don't do a good job, I get hurt severely. Is what I want to say to her. But I don't. "You need the help, Mrs. De María. Your house is big and it will be hours by yourself."

"Call me Mrs. María, and I suppose I do need the assistance, and you've helped me a lot with my house over the years, and I've paid you fifteen dollars each time for your work, and bribing to get your homework done." she laughs. "How much money are you at now, honey?"

I bite my lip. I have been helping her out ever since I was seven, and getting money by doing chores so I can get into college since Dad used up half of my college fund to bet on a poker game. And I've used it to help me and Mom. New clothes, food. Let's see . . . I used $45 to get my clothes and school supplies from Forever 21, Old Navy, and Office Depot, and paid around 20 more for some makeup for Mom to wear. "I think I have seven hundred and sixty-five dollars and thirty cents."

She gasps, placing a hand on her heart. "My gosh! That's about more than I get paid in a month." she says, and smiles. "You can come help me."

"Thank you!"

"But put on some shoes," She points a finger at my sock-covered feet. "Can't have you walking in socks, now."

"Yes, ma'am." I say, and go up the stairs to my room, ready to help her. Until I run into my father. Until I am on my butt, and feel the glass bite into my skin. Until I am staring right at his dead pools of black eyes.

"And just where do you think you're going?" he whispers, anger coating his entire tongue.

"Helping Mrs. María." I say, getting up and not looking at his dark eyes. If there is one thing I hate most out of being in this family, is that he wants me to look at him. And I won't, because if I do, I'll see how his face is somewhat similar to the Devil. Same dark skin, fuzzy beard, emotionless and dead black eyes, breath reeking of alcohol and nicotine. Standing at a full six foot two. "May I go to my room?"

"Why?" he asks.

"I need shoes to help her."

He pauses and rubs his hands along his face, and before he could utter a word, I am trying to go around him.

He slaps me across the face, knocking me to the floor. Stars bounce along my vision, and as they clear up, I am seeing his face. I hate how I, Autumn Wilkes, came from this monster. I hate how my mother, Summer Robinson-Wilkes, married this man. I hate how I am staring at his face right now. Feeling nothing but fear and some type of small strength, but it slowly disintegrates.

"Autumn, are you coming?" Mrs. María calls from downstairs.

"Just a second. Wait for me outside." I say, my eyes forever locked with Dad's face. I close my eyes, feeling my heart crash around in my chest like a starved, flight-stolen bird. Aching to get out and fly. See the world and not see my captor.

As I hear the door close, and feel Dad's heavy breaths fan against my face, I think of what he'll do next. Toss me in the closet until I beg? Use me as a punching bag while Mom recuperates from his beatings? Take me to Torture Chamber? Fear snakes up my throat, and I realize with hot tears that it's Dad's hand wrapped around my throat. I gasp and choke, and place my small hands over his arm. "P-please, Daddy . . ." I rasp.

He lets me go, swinging me to the floor first. My cheek is pierced by some glass. As I get up, rubbing my sore throat, I hear his footsteps clap against the doorway, and he says, "Be back before 8."

I beeline for my room, grab my shoes and put them on, wincing a bit at the glass in my cheek. I walk to my bathroom and look at myself in the broken mirror. Milk chocolate skin. Eyes that almost—almost--look like Dad's: a shade of dark and light brown whisked together. Dark hair that falls at my neck since I decided to cut it for being too long. I wipe off the makeup, revealing the scars underneath. A pink scar on my forehead that goes from the widow's peak to my right eyebrow. A black eye that I've gotten a few days ago after talking back to Dad. And the small glass shard poking out of my cheek. I quickly pull it out. Wince. And begin disinfecting it of anything that could cause an infection, and slap a fresh bandage on it, and put some more foundation on my face to hide the scars and smooth it out.

The less people see, the better.

I walk downstairs with tender movements, and see Mom, bending over the sink, throwing up. She gets so deprived of anything to keep her alive that it makes her sick, along with what I think is PTSD. When I knock on the counter, she coughs, and I pat her back, rubbing it tenderly.

"H-hi, baby," she says softly, and runs a soft, cold hand through my hair. "Where are you going?"

"Next door." I whisper, and pray that Dad is fast asleep. "Helping with chores. Do you want me to bring anything?"

"No, no. Go help society, my little Samaritan." Mom smiles, and she winces at the effort. Another day at the clinic, another time with excuses.

"Okay," I say, and kiss her cheek. It's swollen, cold, and covered with scars. "I'll ask Mrs. María if I can bring anything home." I turn on my heel and walk out of the house, but quickly turning my head to see if she was okay.

Dad's figure looms behind her.

She won't be today.