The doorbell rings at 7:00pm.

“Who the fuck could be here at this hour?” Dad curses as he pulls away from his chair, going to the front door. Mom and I remain seated at the table, silently picking at our roast chicken that we got from Albertson's after-school. I went immediately to bed after Mom brought us home, plugged my earbuds into my ears, and slept for hours. As I did, I kept thinking about why Spencer had changed in behavior. Going from kind and nice, to someone so vicious and protective.

It had only been a day and a half since he met me. Why does he care so much for me? Did a friend of his suffer like me? Had a bad boyfriend?

The door is flung open, and I absently think of who could be at the door. Mrs. Maria? Girl Scouts? Friends from Church asking where we are? Or worse, the police?

“What do you want, short stuff?” Dad announces loudly.

“I'm here to see Autumn. Is she here?”

My blood stops moving. Spencer.

“Why do you want to know? Did the bitch give you herpes?”

“N-No, sir. I just want—”

The door slams in front of him, and Dad shouts, “You little bitch. Who do you think you are, whoring around this goddamn neighborhood?”

“I—I wasn't. Really.” I say honestly, running over to his side.

Dad scowls, opens the door, and before Spencer could greet me, Dad shoves me hard enough that I fly off the front porch and land on my arm. Pain races like fire across the limb, and when I lift myself off the ground, the door is slammed shut, echoing in the neighborhood.

Spencer is looking at me with a surprised look at the front porch. “Are you all right?”

“Mhmm,” I mutter, getting up and wiping off the dust on my jeans. “I just lost my balance.” I hope Spencer would take my lie, that he didn't see Dad push me, and after a raised brow, he nods. I stare at the plastic bag that's in his left hand, and I point. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, just make sure you put it near a outlet and wait for my signal. Once I do, your house will go booom.” Spencer grins, then laughs. When I give a stare of confusion, he says, “It's a joke, ever heard of it?”

I shake my head.

Spencer frowns, and says, “You really aren't much of a talker, are you?”

I shake my head again.

“Come on,” he says, walking over to me, and very gently,

the

back

of

his

hand

touches

my

cheek. “Let's go somewhere less . . . loud.”

I'm frozen where I stand, breathless. He touched me. Not in a way that it hurts, that I cry, that I scream. His skin is warm and soft, but the way he reached his hand out to touch me had a powerful effect. I am frightened. Horrified. First he talked to me, then he stopped Carlson, and now, he touched me. In a gesture that feels kind, caring. Although I don't know these things, it must be how it felt.

My skin is on fire and encased in ice when his hand leaves my cheek. I quickly grab his hand and place it back on my cheek, feeling the feathery whisper of a touch. Spencer smiles, and his hand leaves my face, going over to my own hand, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, and we walk.

I look over my shoulder as my house goes into distance by one block, then the next, until we were five, no, six blocks away. I look up to see a house that looks put together nicely. Victorian-style house. “Is this your home?”

“Yes, it is.” Spencer says, and walks over to the swinging bench on the porch, sits, and pats a side for me to sit. I sit beside him. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he announces.

“It's very . . .” I try to find the word in my vocabulary, but I just can't.

“Exquisite.” he says.

I nod.

Spencer digs in the plastic bag, and pulls out the paperback novel, and a CD case. “One novel, and one music album.” He places them in my hands. “Told you I'd get it.”

My face burns as I accept the book, but I hold up the CD case in my hands. It shows a man wearing a skull with a red handprint, with a blonde and brunette holding his arms, both wearing sunglasses in front of a yellow car and behind a building that has a symbol for the President, but it's different. The words on the cover are vicious and red, yellow, and white, saying THE FURIOUS AND DEADLY FIVE FINGER DEATH PUNCH STRIKES AGAIN with their latest offering AMERICAN CAPITALIST.

I stare at Spencer stupidly.

“It's a really kick-ass band,” he explains, “I want you to hear them, and it's a gift. If you don't like it, I could take it back . . .”

“No,” I say, pulling the CD close to me. The square presses itself against my chest, and I let it. This, and the book, are one of the real things that I could have. That this boy with dark hair and light eyes was nice enough to go through the trouble, for me. “I'll listen to them.” I just have to make sure Mom and Dad are asleep before I listen to them, because when I play my music, I put my volume on full-blast in my room, but mostly in my earbuds. “What do they play?”

Spencer smirks, and sunlight dances on his glasses. “Heavy metal.”

I scrunch my nose.“You don't look like the type to listen to that.”

He laughs. “What type am I?”

“Christian music. Gospel.” I say.

Spencer smirks. “Well, I guess this fits for you. You look like a heavy metal chick.”

“How?”

“It's in your face. Those brown eyes. It needs to let out a rage, and metal is the perfect remedy.”

I smile a little, then let it drop as I think about what Dad may react when he sees the book and CD in my hands. He'll get angry. Rip them out of my hands and break them into nothing, like he did to my heart.

I can't let him see this.

“May I have the bag?” I ask, feeling a lump clog my throat.

“Of course.” Spencer hands me the bag, and, like a gentleman, puts my belongings in there, and plaes them at my feet. “I don't see why—”

In an instant, I throw my arms around him, wrapping my arms around his neck, saying “Thank you thank you thank you thank you” so much my mouth hurts and I fear my tongue my be bitten by my teeth. Because what I was feeling was something I never thought I would feel.

Joy.

But I am not allowed to have such a privilege to feel these things.When Spencer puts a hand on my back, I cry out, because my spine is sore after a beating Sunday night. I push him away, and say, “thank you” before getting off the bench swing, taking the bag and walking back to my house, tears rolling down my face.

I shouldn't get that way again. I was this close to feeling, and I knew where that got me.

If Spencer had me feeling things again, I fear I would be more vulnerable than I was in the past.

That night, I turn on my CD player, and skip to track 8, a song called “Remember Everything.” The song starts out dark and sad, and then when the lead singer, Ivan Moody, starts to sing, I feel a lump bearing itself in my throat. I rub it, hoping it would go away, but it doesn't. Seconds later, I am crying the minute the chorus hits, tucking myself into a ball. If I could hold back the rain, would you numb the pain? 'Cause I Remember Everything! If I could help you forget, would you take my regrets, because I remember everything! As he sings, I'm starting to make loud noises as I cry, screaming and kicking the walls of my bedroom door.

Why, oh, why, must I listen to this? Every single verse, every single note and emotion he endlessly pours in these words, sink into my body and suffocate me. Crack open my chest. Expose my bruised, bloody heart.

“KEEP THE FUCK DOWN IN THERE, YOU WHORE!” Father screams, banging his hands on the door, and I hope he's not high. The horrors he did to me when he was high. I do not want a repeat. When I pull out my earbuds and hear his feet descend down the stairwell, I roll over on my stomach, press the pillow deep in my face, bring the earbuds back in my ears, and cry and shriek like I never did before.

I feel like running away, I'm still so far from home, you say that I'll never change, but WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW! I'll burn it all to the ground, before I let you in, please forgive me, I can't forgive you now.

His voice is poetry. Speaking words my pathetic self can never understand.

I Remember Everything.

I do. I Remember Everything. From screams and thrashing, his acidic pain in my ears, my wetting myself in the car.

And Everything hurts.

If I could hold back the rain, would you numb the pain? 'Cause I Remember Everything!

No one can numb the pain. I will let the rain pour loudly against my window, make a vicious storm.

If I could help you forget, would you take my regrets, because I Remember Everything!

If I did have a friend, or a better boyfriend, would he help me forget it all? No.

It all went by so fast, I still can't change the past, I always will Remember Everything! If we could start again, would that have changed the end? We Remember EVERYTHING!

Everything . . .

I cry for the longest name, and my shrieks seem to get the attention of my father again, who throws the door open, cracking his large, bloody knuckles. “Didn't I tell you to shut up?” he hisses.

I sit up and wipe the tears quickly off my face, nodding my head, and I fear the worst.

Dad walks over to me, and in a swift movement, grabs hold of my wrist, yanks me out of bed, then drags me out my room. I kick and shriek, and he lands a kick in my side, a bruise still fresh from Saturday. Dad whispers, “This will help you shut up,” and with no regrets, throws me down the stairs. They bump my bones and I am hit repeatedly in the temples as I make it to the floor of the living room. Head spinning, ears ringing as I struggle to get up.

Mom is on the ground, a hand to her bloody nose. She pleads to Dad to not hurt me, but Dad doesn't listen.

Once I hear the sound of his feet on the ground, and his silhouette blurs in my vision, I vomit on his shoes, pants, and on myself. Disgusted, Dad kicks me again, and pulls me by my short hair to bring me down to the basement, my legs hitting the wooden steps, pricked by splinters, fire and ice bleeding in my veins.

My head feels cold; I probably received a cut from the fall.

When I am on my back against the rough carpet of the basement, I see Dad grabbing two wires from the car battery, the ends open and sparkling electricity as they connect.

All night, I am screaming for God to take me now in his arms.

I did not talk to Spencer nor Wyatt in two days. Wednesday is a short day—we get out at 12:16pm, so I evaded the library and walk over to the worst person I could ever think of. My own miniature Devil.

Carlson.

I give him a tap on the arm.

He turns, smiles maliciously, says, “Finally changed your goddamn mind?”

I make a small nod.

“Hey homies!” he says, “This bitch wants me back!”

His boys cheer and woof call as Carlson smacks my behind, and I am walking with him to the boys' bathroom, check for security, and we go inside a stall, ignoring the catcalls as he unbuckles his belt, and is ready to drop his pants.

“On your knees.” he whispers.

I get on my knees. GO FUK YOURSELF.

DUDE, MAY GOT A BIG ASS!!!!!!!!

;) MY DICK IZ BETR THAN UR BABY ONES FRESHIE.

SENIUR CLAS BITCHES!! 

He pulls off his boxers, and digs out a condom from his back pocket. Puts it on.

I close my eyes, and do exactly what he says next. And hate every second of it.