I look up, my face quickly changes from shock to fear. Shit. that's all I could think before he grabbed my hair, pulling so hard some of my hair ripped. 

I stood up, my legs barely able to hold my 130 lbs. he leaned in close to my face, the alcohol still contaminatng his breath. "What the f*** are you doing here?" His words fueled by anger. "Didn't I say fags aren't allowed under my roof?" his grey eyes locking with mine. "Are you a fag?" I quickly shake my head. "No! I'm no-" Slap! My head snapped to the left, the sound of the back of his hand colliding with the side of my face echoes in the empty space. "Did I say you could talk!?" I shake my head again, my busted lip already starting to swell. 

He looks me up, and down, before releasing my hair. "Good. Now clean that up." He points to the stairs, where I see the beer bottle he threw at me earlier, laying in pieces all over the wooden steps. "Yes sir" i can't call him father or dad, and whenever I do, he says: mistakes don't get to call me dad. I inwardly sneer. well not like I'd want to anyway. I grab a towel and dust pan, before heading over to the broken glass. I place the towel on top of the mess first, letting it soak up the remaining beer. Thanking whatever god that's out there, that beer bottles break into a few large pieces rather then a frick ton of small ones. 

After cleaning up, I walk upstairs, closing my door behind me. I throw my bag onto the floor, walking over to the mirror I have in the bathroom. My lips have a bit of dried blood on them, and the cracked part is swollen. But it's starting to slowly closing up. 'Hmm it should be fine' I heal faster then a human, but still slower then a pure-blood Krejin. But that's better then nothing, so I shouldn't complain. 

After changing into a simple dark-blue crew neck, and grey sweat pants, I walk over to my nightstand and open the top drawer, and grab one of my sketch books, my hand griping the worn and crinkled cover. I walk over to my sleeping bag, and sit down on it, leaning against the wall. I open the book to one of the last remaining blank pages and start drawing, I don't really think about what I'm drawing, I just let the pencil scratch across the paper, leaving behind variations of grey. 

Time passes by and I finally pay attention to what I've drawn. I stare at the beautiful Swan that's floating above a pond. Their wings folded on their back, and their neck curved downward.

their feathers appear so soft I get the urge to reach out and run my hand across them. But since I can't, I settle for gently touching the page, carful not to press too hard, so I don't smudge the graphite.

I close the sketch book, and place it back in its usual spot on top of the other books in the drawer.

Since its around 5:30 I decide to head out for a run. We don't live in the safest neighborhood, So I grab my folded Swiss Army knife, and stuff it into one of my back pockets. 

Even though I know my father will be gone for hours, i lock my door just in case he comes back early. 

I make my way downstairs, past the now empty couch, and through the front door. I don't lock it on my way out, mainly because we don't have anything of value anyway, and also because I don't plan on being gone long.

I jog along the gravel road, scanning the forests, and the occasional house here and there. I jog about a mile, before reaching one of few intersections in the neighborhood. But instead of turning, I go straight, heading into the woods.

When i first started running here, the ground was covered in dead trees and thorny bushes, so i spent quite a few hours every day clearing the debris away, so i could run without fear of tripping over a branch and breaking my nose, or scratching my arm along those stupid bushes. And yes you may be thinking– oh but don't you heal quickly– yes but I still feel pain, and trust me breaking your nose is not pleasant, mostly because you have to set it quickly, or else it heals wrong. But anywayyy.   I follow the path through the forest, the leaves crunching under my weight, as I listen to the woodpeckers drilling into the trees. I slow down after about 20 minutes, my chest rising and falling quicker then normal. After a quick break I start heading back, my pace slower then before, now only a slow jog.

The sun has already set by the time I head home. the bats chirping quietly above me. I walk up to the door, my hand hesitating on the handle. what if he came back early? What if he beats me? Or what if he broke into my room, and found my sketch books? All these situations whirled around my head, with each one my breathing became more ragged, my body filling with dread. I eventually force myself to twist the door knob.

I was prepared to see my father standing in front of the door, reaching out to grab me, but instead I'm greeted with nothing, but an empty living room, and the deafening sound of silence. I let out a relieved breath, my heart slowing down. 

As i walk inside, my stomach grumbles loudly, i haven't had anything other then the apple from the cafeteria. I skip the kichen, since i know its long been emptied of all edible contents, and instead check the living room. After checking the coffee table, my eyes settle on the couch where i see a package, which upon further inspection, I realize it's a dark-chocolate bar my father must have brought home, and forgotten to eat it. 

After finishing the bar, and throwing away the wrapper, I walk into my room, and head to the bathroom, grabbing a change of clothes along the way. I take a quick shower, before brushing my teeth, and throwing my dirty clothes into the corner for later cleaning. I walk over to my forgotten backpack, and grab my homework, determined to finish it before tomorrow.

It's about 12:40 am when I finally finish everything. After putting the books aside, I lean back on the wall, my arms stretching out, while I gingerly stretch my sore fingers. I slide down the wall, and into my sleeping bag. Plopping my head onto my surprisingly not-too-uncomfortable pillow. I stare at the ceiling awhile, before my eyes slowly drift shut, unable to stay open any longer.