Tuesday, 11th of November

Dear Diary,

                Today, I think, was one of the worst days of my life, even though that would be hard to do. I walked my brother, Kyle, home from school to find mum home on the couch with a half-drunk bottle of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, asleep. Dad was out getting the groceries because mum has slowly gotten sadder and sadder and isn’t able to do it anymore. I don’t know how to help her. I took away the bottle and cigarette out of her hands and threw them away…I won’t tell dad because it will just start an argument. I gave my brother some milk and biscuits and sent her out in the back yard to play while I did the dishes. While I ran the water I watched my younger sibling through the window; he seemed so peaceful, but in reality our life was a living hell. I had just put the last of the dishes on the draining rack when I heard something behind me. All of a sudden there was a loud crack as something hard hit my head, I fell to the floor; I felt the sticky red stuff oozing out of my head. Unfortunately I knew this feeling all too well, the blood on my neck, on the floor, on my hands; I would have to clean it up later. I looked up to find my mother holding another bottle in her hand with smeared blood on it from my head. She started kicking me violently while I was on the floor; I knew if I tried to fight it, it would just get worse. So I laid there and let my “should” be caring mother, the one who gave birth to me, who loved me so tenderly until a few years ago, bash the shit out of me. She was drunk and had obviously been alone for several hours, allowing her to get mad over her life, regret the kids she had brought into the world, and cried about being married. My mother wasn’t always like this. Ever since our grandfather, her dad, died, she drank more alcohol and started experimenting with drugs. I protected my sister as much as I could since dad was always doing something or was out of the house. After a while, my mum stopped kicking me and walked away. I started counting, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…48, 49, 50. I got up slowly as to avoid the dizzy feeling and checked on my sister outside. Thankfully she hadn’t seen any of it and was still playing happily. I usually get beat up, but sometimes mother turns on my seven year old brother, turns on her own flesh and blood, and tortures him. I cover up the bruises with make-up, something no sister should ever have to do. Oh no, someone is coming…I think its mum. I’ll write later,