That sounds like a complete work of fiction!

I rip up my paper and pull a new piece out.

"Time's up. Please, pass your papers forward," the teacher says.

Now panicking, I look for any of my previous papers to turn in, but they're all far too mangled to use.

In desperation, I quickly grab the blank sheet and write across the top 'Breakfast With My Family'.

The story is a pandering pile of crap, with nothing remotely true, but the nice imagery, happy tone, and subtle change in wording should distract the teacher from the fact that I've written this exact story over five times this year.

My father and I sat at the table, greatly anticipating Mom's famous, not so burnt, chocolate chip pancakes. As she placed them on the table, Dad complimented her beautiful dress, she complimented him on his suit, and they both kiss.

"Eat up, Chelfish, your mother and I are taking you to the circus, so you'll need your energy," Dad said with my mother around his arm as she smiled and nodded.

I finish shitting the steaming pile of story on the paper just in time to turn it in.

Honestly, I've written it so many times that last minute was no problem. Despite the fact that I know the paper will get an 'A', I still feel a sense of sadness as the paper is collected along with the others.

I walk all the way home, still thinking about that damn paper.

I've always liked writing the story, but I can never understand why. For the longest time I just assumed it was because I was getting an easy 'A', for it at this point. I could write it in my sleep, but now as I've gotten older, I think it's because it's a story I've never actually lived.

A life full of pleasant things with parents that never fight.

For eight years of my life, that was all they ever did. They fought to run from their aggressive families and to spare their only child from the same painful upbringing they had endured.

From birth to eight years old I was taught to fight against my own limitations, to learn to defend myself while fighting others who wished to harm me, and my parents prepared to fight their ex-clans.

With so much of our lives devoted to fighting, it was a huge shock to learn that on my eighth birthday, The Tigers and The Mantis Group had both disbanded.

The news would've been good for any other family living in fear, but for mine, it was the worst news possible.

It started with the training.

4am would roll around and they would wake up as usual, except now there was less need to practice techniques to the point of collapse, or to spend hours sharpening the weapons, or exercise continuously to ensure their bodies were in peak condition.

Soon, the boredom of spending all day in the house caught up to them, and they decided to get normal jobs.

Dad got a job as a security guard at the mall and my mother became a prison guard while she went to college.

Not long after, their competitive attitudes got the better of them and they began to throw themselves into their new found careers. Dad became the shift coordinator and Mom quickly graduated and became the warden.

Both of my parents were at the very top of their jobs, and we no longer needed to struggle in Montoya. It didn't take us long to buy a house just outside Wattacon where I could go to a school with actual band programs, good teachers, and nicer students.

I no longer had to keep my head down or worry about being literally eaten alive or kidnapped.

It truly was a perfect life...until Dad hit Mom.

Okay, to be fair, Mom stabbed him first.

They were arguing about something that I don't think any of us even remember, when Dad made the mistake of calling her short.

All I remember is the dinner plates crashing to the floor and Dad yelling in pain as blood gushed and stained his white dress shirt.

Suddenly, Mom was yanking the steak knife out of his arm and continuing her attack before he used his left hand to make solid contact with her jaw. It snapped her head back and sent the knife flying across the room.

Even though I was only nine, I will never forget that hateful look in their eyes as they glared at each other.

It was as if their warrior instincts had kicked in and the only person they needed to kill was standing right in front of them.

This was before their fighting became normal for me, so I didn't know what to do at that time besides run upstairs and hide under my bed, crying that whole weekend.

That was three years ago and the fighting has only gotten worse.

I turn the corner to see our house. To my dread, I see both Mom and Dad's cars in the driveway.

Usually Mom works until the afternoon and Dad works until the evening, so they usually don't interact much until breakfast the next day, but today wasn't that day.

I can already hear the yelling and breaking of glass from the corner, but luckily the neighbors have grown used to it and keep their mouths shut.

As I wait in the driveway for the storm inside to be over, I can clearly hear the clanging sounds of swords, meaning the house is still too dangerous to enter.

It always makes me wonder why two people so different, who hate each other so much, would ever get married.

Even when they weren't fighting, it was only because they were preparing to fight somebody else to protect me.

I've never seen them hug or kiss, or even say a single nice thing to each other. Instead of a loving partnership built on trust, they always seemed to have a partnership that was based on pure necessity.

It makes me sad to realize why they stay together, why they gave up their lives as warriors, and why they work themselves to death to keep a life they don't want with a person they hate in a country they don't like.

I hate knowing that I ruined their lives.

If it wasn't for that unprotected, senseless fling in the warehouse, if they had just been interrupted or just didn't decide to even go in there, they could've kept their lives the same and been as far away from each other as possible instead of forcing themselves to protect their weak, uncoordinated mistake of a daughter.

Tears begin to fall down my cheeks as I run inside, not caring if I caught a sword to the neck...but I catch it in the leg instead.

Well, technically just a broken piece that flew off of Dad's now ruined blade, but it still really hurt.

They keep fighting in the shredded rags of what used to be their work clothes until the small puddle of blood catches their attention.

They peer over to see me pulling the shard from my calf and crying uncontrollably, now a snotty, bloody mess.

They both immediately rush over and wrap me up in their arms.

"Are you okay, Chellybean?!" Dad asks as Mom breaks away to retrieve her first aid kid.

I nod up at him and he seems to accept my answer while Mom begins cleaning and carefully stitching the cut.

"I didn't know you were there, Chelsea. If I did, I wouldn't have swung so hard at your Dad's cheap sword," Mom sneers, clearly annoyed that I got hurt.

"Hey, it was made in China!" Dad glares back.

I try to stand up, having fallen to my butt when I was hit, but the pain makes me completely forget the idea.

Luckily they notice my emotions for once and instantly back off each other. I look for an excuse to change the subject before noticing the slips of paper in Dad's front pocket, which are strangely unharmed.

"Wh-What are those?" I sniffle, trying my best not to burst into tears again.

Dad looks confused at first until he looks down and pulls them out.

"Three tickets to the New Asia Culture Circus tonight. I figured we could go if you wanted."

Both Mom and I give him a weird look, but Mom is the first the speak.

"Kane... You want to go to a New Asia circus?"

Dad blinks and suddenly shows an incredibly rare smile.

"Yeah. Chelsea should know what her home is like. Besides, there will be some Japanese performers there. They might be tainted with Chinese blood, but worth a watch," he shrugs nonchalantly.

Mom looks like she wants to pick me up and beat my Dad over the head with my own body, but she takes a deep breath instead.

"Sounds like fun," she answers with a soft, genuine smile.

It is in this moment that I realize a crucial detail I never really thought about before.

Mom and Dad hate each other, but...they love me.