Chapter 1: Morning

I dressed and washed my face quickly and quietly, so as not to wake the sleeping monster down the hall. My trying to be sneaky was kind of pointless, however, because as I was foolishly pouring myself a bowl of cereal, procrastinating my leaving to go to school, my dad stumbled into the kitchen. So much for a peaceful morning.

A slight tingle of fear ran up my spine, but I hid it. I glanced up quickly at my dad to see him watching me closely, then back down at my cornflakes. Somehow, I didn't feel very hungry anymore.

He came closer as I contemplated my cereal. He reached out and grabbed my chin, jerking it so my eyes met his. I swallowed and froze.

Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, I kept repeating over and over in my head. So instead of seeing dad's glassy gray eyes, I saw clear, loving brown ones. The eyes of Matt, whom I saw every night in my dreams. He'd comforted me, even though we never really talked much, and cured my pain, both  physical and emotional, every night since the night about a month after my mothers death, three weeks ago. So what if nobody else knew about him? He was still the only one who cared about me.

But there was something that made me think he wasn't just a figment of my dreams. Whenever I woke up after a night under a starry sky in various forests and fields with Matt, all the bruises from my dad and various a******s at school were gone. My skin would be smooth, flawless and healed the next morning, like had happened last night.

Dad finally broke the silence by sneering, "Good job with the makeup." He shoved my head back, turned and stalked over to the fridge. He pulled it open and grabbed a bottle of beer from the bottom shelf and went back to his room.

I sighed in relief, slumping back in my chair. He hadn't hit me or anything, like a few times before, so I'd actually have to use make up. And I hated hiding the truth about my life, but if I didn't, I'd get hit more and more. That wasn't really pleasing either.

I brushed my cheek lightly with my fingers.  Just last night, there was a nasty scrape from having my face shoved into the brick kitchen wall during one of my dad's drunken rages. Then Matt had healed me. Even after countless times of him fixing me up--nearly every day for the past three years--it still slightly surprised me.

Not wanting to stick around much longer in case dad wanted another beer, I dumped the remains of my cereal into the garbage, rinsed the bowl, grabbed my backpack and left for school.