The sound of my parents arguing was the only sound I heard when I was 6. But it became even worse when I turned 13. My father's voice was booming what I dreaded to hear, "Dane is a difficult daughter to take care of!" My mother screamed,"Fine! We'll drive Dane out of our house. Our lives shall be easier then."

That's it. I couldn't take it anymore. I rushed down the stairs like a bullet. "Nooooo! Please do not do this to me! Don't leave me alone! PLEASE!" My parents bolted up, startled. My mother pushed me down, my bottom hitting the floor. "Ouch!" I cried. My father slapped my face hard.

"Horrible, rude child!"
"Why are you doing this to me! I am your daughter!"

My parents ignored me and ran up the stairs, packed my suitcase and shoved me out of the house, slamming the door in my face. Hot tears poured down my cheeks. I felt the pain in my cheek that glowed red from my father's slap.

The rain poured like hail stones all over me. I cupped my hands to catch the raindrops. I let them flow and drip down my palms onto my swollen cheek. It felt so rejuvenating, so cool and relaxing. It was magical. I could not describe the feeling.

I fingered the intricate carvings of the front door of my house. "Goodbye," I breathed, staring up into my room for the last time. "I will not see you again."