I grew up in the small town El Paso, population 2,000. I had long black hair, usually tied up in a ponytail, with small brown eyes. I was a bit overweight, at 150 pounds at 13, and 5'3. I had a sunny disposition in public, but when I wasn't, I almost always wanted to cry. You see, growing up as me was horrible. I had a alcoholic mother and father, and a druggie older brother. Everyday I'd be beaten, raped, or whipped. Thinks that were broken, were my fault, the last of food consumptions, my fault. Daily murder occurrences were always around the corner. I'd always have to be careful entering the house, lest my family would hear me.
On the outside, I was a sunny, happy little lassie, inside; my soul and heart were broken beyond repair. I came close to committing suicide several times, but the faces of my friends always kept coming through. My name is Stony Hills, and this is my story.