| Written: 1:03 AM June 10, 2004 Pondering and driving down the dark, rocky road had been the one thing I had dreaded. The notion of anger fell upon me, as I saw my fate as what my parents would slowly shout into the mindless night. I saw the light posts shimmer and reflect off my old, beat up truck. The bends in the rusted metal reminded me of home. This ancient steal and my being had a very common ground. We were both beat up and bruised. The strange thing, I must admit, is my fear. I knew what I had coming. The old, worn belt on the wall against my sun burnt chest, so I could "truly feel the pain" as my father had always told me. The lights seemed to get darker, as I approrached my home slowly by the minute. Seconds ticked by, yet it seemed my house would not come. The lanterns shining through the kitchen window slowly faded out. Why can't I just get home? I am ready for my beating. There was no doubt they were waiting. My father with his belt, and my mother with her old, wooden paddle. Abuse is supposedly the best love. |
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