My mothers yelling at me again. Everything's a haze. Is it about my grades? My silence? I study her face. She's irate, but I don't hear her over the buzzing in my ears; I refuse to. It's always the same; the beatings, the insults.

Like an obedient child I sit there, not looking away but not speaking up. If I speak up, she'll hit me. If I don't look her in the eyes, she'll hit me.

The neighbors have become accustomed to the yelling. They turn a blind eye to the screams, the bruises. They refuse to believe I am more than a 'trouble child.' It's probably easier for them to sleep at night pretending; ignoring reality.

I wish I could do that.