Worth it_(0)

He would come in every night. Wasn’t he tired of me? Wasn’t he tired? During the day he acted like he hated me. My mom would just sit there while he said I was worthless, how I never did anything around the house, how lucky I was that he was supporting us. When I’d dress up, wear make-up, or go out he’d glare.
“Where are you going looking like that?”
“Who you trying to look pretty for?”
“You look like a cheap whore.”
I’d lay in my room, crying, staring in the mirror at my face, with my swollen dark eyes, my pouty full lips, my long black hair, my body. I hated my body. It beckoned him. I know, because he’d whisper it was my fault as he rammed into me. Holding my throat as he said, “you’re a fucking waste with a body like this. A fucking waste.” The waste of the body was firm, petite, and supple. He’d grip it firmly in his large hands till it bruised and felt on the brink of breaking.
I once tried locking more door, and the next day, he beat my mom. She was yelling, saying she hadn’t done anything, and he said, “I know.”
I left my door unlocked.
I’m sure she knew. Knew what he was doing to me. She never looked at me, never spoke to me. Just sat there in front of the TV until it was time for dinner.
School and sports was my only escape.
I’d wake up early, take the bus, go to school, go to soccer, go to ballet on the weekends, anything to keep my out of that house. But then I’d have to go home. I’d eat dinner, do my homework, go lay in bed, and wait.
He’d stretch my legs apart and sometimes tie them to the frame.