I was just having a shower, and I started remembering. I remembered a time when I was in high school, when I still attended church and youth group, and considered myself a God fearing person. I remembered one Saturday evening, as I was sitting in youth group, enjoying my time with God, when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and told me to follow them out to the hallway. I obeyed, and followed closely. When I stepped into the once elementary school hallway, and saw him. Richard, my father, standing near the front doors. I knew instantly, by the look in his eyes, he was ready to kill me. He rushed down the hallway, and grabbed my wrist, yelling incoherently. I stared in fear, as his grip tightened. I felt the bones in my wrist fighting to avoid breaking. I don't remember what I had done, but I knew if I went with him, I wouldn't see the next morning. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kevin, our youth pastor. I hadn't said anything since I walked into the hall, and it angered Richard, he yelled louder, and raised his fist to hit me. I cringed on instinct, but was relieved to hear Kevin's voice call out. The music in the other room stopped, and I could hear the whispers of my 'friends'. The blow never came, but he wrenched my arm, pulling me towards the door. I looked back in anguish as my mentors watched me go. As the glass doors closed behind me, and I watched my reflection in the glass I could hear my heart racing. I wasn't going to survive. I made a split decision then, ripping my sweat covered hand from his dirty palm. I ran, ran for my life. Ran until I could not breath. Then, I hid. I heard him yell after me, but I new the fat bastard would never keep up. I climbed a nearby tree, as far as my non-muscular arms would carry my heavy body. I felt so exonerated as I realized the leaves would hide me until it was safe. Less than an hour later, I saw people filing out of the church. I knew they had been praying for me, that's what they do. I could hear them calling my name. I leapt from the branch, and raced to the nearest person. It was Bonita, a missionary from our church who had been great friends with my friend Sarah. I held onto her so tightly. She led me back to the church, where they assured me he was gone, and would not return. They had threatened to call the police. The entire youth group then embraced me. I had never cried so hard in my entire life. Through all the times I had been beaten, and all the times I had felt ashamed for being alive, I had never cried so hard. I heard them praying around me. I felt loved, for once in my life, someone cared.

I stayed that night at one of the group leader's home. I didn't want to go back, but I knew I would have to. He would find me eventually, he did drive buses for my high school, and he could easily find me there. So, I returned home. Barely a word was spoken for the remainder of the week. I had received an invitation to a sleep over with all the girls from the youth group, and I knew I HAD to go. I would not be able to handle another weekend at 'home'. So, I received approval from Richard to go to the sleep over, and left Friday night after work. When I returned Saturday afternoon, there was a dead bolt secured to my bedroom door. He was standing at the end of the hallway, glaring at me with his devilish eyes, boring a hole into my emotions. "Get out" he grumbled. "You don't live here anymore." I turned quickly and ran out the door, slamming it with all my strength behind me. I ran down the road, finding my way to the couple's home that I had stayed at the weekend before. They had shown me where the spare key was, and how to get in. I locked myself inside, and started calling the people I knew could help. I finally got a hold of one of the other group leaders, and she quickly came the 15 kilometers to get me. When we got back to her home, we called my mother, and she managed to find a ride across the border to pick me up. We called the pastor of the church, and we met my mother there for a counseling session. We called the police, and they escorted me to my home, so I could get some clothing and personal effects. Richard glared at my mother and I as I carried my simple laundry basket of clothing to her car. He hated us, and was not afraid to show it.

I was sent to stay with one of the church elders a few kilometers out of town. I stayed there for a few weeks, riding the bus into the school everyday, and trying to avoid the stares I received from the 'popular kids' from the school. They would never understand. After a few weeks, I was instructed to go 'home', and they forced me to return to his house. So, I have been sitting here, crying, and (To steal a quote from Grey's Anatomy) "Yes, I am damaged, and I am broken." He ruined my life, and by writing this, I can begin to heal myself. It has been over four years since this string of events, but I still hurt, and my heart still aches. When will I ever be whole again? I'm tired of hurting.