The words could not even begin to describe the burning pain inside me. Tears are falling on my face as if they are escaping from a wilderness prison with no emotion calling opaque eyes. My mother is watching, her face is blank like a cloth while my father continues to beat me all I can do is cry. Random things once sat on the mahogany desk in the small dining room are now scattered like leaves on the forest floor. The rug, which is usually snow-white, but crimson-stained with blood that flows from my head like water from a tap. Shattered photo frames and glass In my hair, chairs tilted in anger. I am twisted into a ball in the corner of the room lifeless and still barely clinging to consciousness. A strict, angry homophobic father's face bends over me as he beats me with all his might. He was never a much-spoken man. My mom, a very religious woman, looks up at my father as if she watches the beating like a blood sport. I've been used to drunken people until now, many nights my father came back late in drunken amazement with a fiery mood like the great fire of London but this time was different this time he was sober. I knew when he finally got tired I would have to pack my things and leave all I knew behind because nothing could be the same after this, this time nothing could fix it. At last, he finally stopped and grabbed my hair pulling me up against his mouth and in a soft tone he spoke the five words that hurt more than his fists "get out of my house." If he hadn't found out that I quit school if he hadn't been an ignorant bastard and if he hadn't hated me since the day I was born then maybe | wouldn't have had to leave the only place | called home. But no matter what I will never apologize for who I am.