Chapter two
Mary sighed. She had been watching Christian talk to that stupid preppy girl. I think Christy-Ann is her name.
She frowned and turned to walk back home. She lived with her father. She had no mother, and if she did, she either left her, or was dead. Her father never spoke about her.
She did not like her father. He would often hit her, or yell and swear at her, when he was drunk. She had learned to bear the pain, and sufferings. With the abuse, alcohol, and breaking up with Christian, her life was a nightmare.
She was often found, in the middle of class, crying. She had every reason and right to be.
This last week, the day before school had started, her father had come home drunk, and pulled a gun of the underwear drawer. He had threatened to shoot her if she did not cooperate. She did, and had to go through a series of difficult and painful challenges.
She could not, and would not, ever call the police. They had no telephone, and if her father would ever of caught her, then she would be in for it. She might not even come out alive.
Mary had no friends. Ever since the breakup, she was lonely. A tear dropped out of her eye.
Mary wanted a reason in life. Why was she born? What good does it do now? She hated her life, more than anything in the entire world. Ever since her childhood, everything had gone wrong. When her father and become a drunk, her life went down in the dumps.
Mary disliked her house. It wouldn’t even be qualified for a house, but it is where she had to live. The rooftop was destroyed, so when there was a rainstorm, their few pieces of furniture would have to air-dry. They had no bathroom, or telephone, and the only expensive thing that her and her father owned was a long, silver sword, hung up above the fireplace.
When she walked into the torn up house, she threw her pack and binder on a dirty, broken chair. She wiped a tear off of her cheek, and quietly headed to her tiny room.
As she looked around, she saw all of her few clothing thrown on the floor. Most likely, her father had thrown them there; but she did not care.
She slowly climbed up on her bed. Her bed was her favorite possession, besides her diary, where most of the events that she goes through is written down. Her bed was comfortable and the only place in the house where she could lie down and rest. She would often spend hours upon hours just lying on her bed, thinking.
When she was comfortable, she reached for her diary. It was not an interesting color of diary, but the most exciting and dreadful stories are told inside of it.
Dear Diary,
Today was no better than the day before. Christian still ignores me, and I cannot go up to him just yet. I just do not have the strength, or will.
Please, if there is anyone who cares about me, or loves me, please God, make them known to me. I need someone to care for me. My father will kill me if I do not escape sooner or later. I hope sooner.
Mary
Mary finished writing her entry for that day, and set aside her pen and diary. She dug her head inside her pillow, and started to cry.
Very realistic. One thing however about that—Can houses not have bathrooms?? I was wondering about that…