Sage stared out the small window in her attic bedroom, the sunlight making her skin glow. With a sigh, she turned away, pulling the curtain closed, her bedroom now laying in darkness. She longed to leave. To travel the world and leave her worries behind. To leave her parents behind. Her parents never cared for her anyway. They probably would not even notice if she left. They would be too drunk to even remember they had a daughter in the first place. But that was not her worry. After she left, everything would be ok. But it was if she got caught in the act. That was what scared her. They did things to her over simple things, like accidentally throwing a bottle in the garbage instead of the recycling, or forgetting to put extra ice in her dad’s glass, or even simply walking past her parents. That would cause them to lash out, slamming their fists into her face, her stomach, her chest. Everywhere. Bruises decorated her body like ornaments, and she would layer on makeup to hide the black and blues.
    “She would be so much prettier if she did not wear so much makeup,” girls would sneer with distaste.
    “She is just a rich white b**** who only cares about her looks,” boys would laugh as they walked past her.
    If only they knew. She wore makeup to protect her parents. Despite all the hate, anger, pain, and sadness she had held in her heart, she didn’t want her parent to go to jail. She didn’t want their lives to be thrown off course. They were her parents after all. She believed in spreading love and kindness, despite the cards she was being dealt. She never knew what caused her parents to crawl to the bottle anyways. What altered their lives so drastically, that they needed alcohol to escape the pain? What ghosts haunted both of them, causing them to live a life of constant fear. She felt bad for them. Yes, she was angry about their abusive habits, but she was sorry for what they have been going through for so many years.
    “Sage!” There it was. The first drunken, slurred call of the night. It was her father, probably asking her to refill his glass, or clean something, or just to hit her. She looked at herself in the mirror, her face clear of makeup. She always did this when her parents got home. She memorized the existent bruises, so she could see which ones were new. With a deep breath, she calmly walked down the stairs into the living room, where her father was nursing a glass of vodka, definitely not his first for the night, his eyes trying to focus on the tv. It was important when dealing with her parents to act a certain way. Too cheerful and they’d hit her. Too quiet and they’d hit her. There was a perfect in between, but even then she would still end up getting hit eventually. She stood a few feet away from her father, looking directly above his head. If she looked down, he’d hit her. If she looked him in the eyes, he’d hit her.
    “Hi, dad,” She said, her voice not too loud and not too quiet. She picked a blanket up off of the floor and folded it, setting it down on the couch. “Did you need something?”
    “Obviously I need summin,” He shouted, rolling his eyes. “If I din need summin why would I of called ya?” He slammed his glass on the table, the ice cubes clinking together loudly.
    She winced, then cursed herself silently. If her father had seen her fear, he would’ve certainly hit her. She stood up straight, her hands clasped together in front of her.
    “What do you need me to do?” She asked as calmly as possible.
    “Refill ma glass,” He slurred, then hiccuped.
    It disgusted her. The life her parents lived. The life she had to live. None of it made any sense to her. She wished she knew the reason. Why were things like this now? She couldn’t remember a time when they were any different. Had her parents been born with demons? Or did something happen, something before Sage was born, that caused them to run?
    “Yes, dad,” Sage turned on her heel, walking into the kitchen to get her fathers glass of fire.
    “Sage,” Her mother greeted her in the kitchen, her straw-colored brown hair hanging in a curtain around her shoulders. That one syllable was filled with venom, and it burned her ears. She nodded at her mother, hurrying past her to the liquor cabinet. Standing on tippy toe, she reached up and grabbed a bottle of vodka from the shelf.
    “Don’t you DARE ignore me!” Her mother screamed, hitting Sage on the side of the head so hard her ear started ringing. The bottle went flying from her hands, crashing on the ground and shattering. Big pieces of glass littered the floor, and the alcohol pooled at her feet. Her heart was pounding so loudly she worried her mother would be able to hear it.
    “Look what you did!” Her mother shoved her. Sage slipped, a giant piece of jagged glass slicing her leg. She moaned with pain, but she didn’t scream. If she screamed, her mother would’ve only gotten angrier. “Clean this mess up,” She spat, turning on her heel, leaving Sage on the floor, blood dripping down her leg. The vodka seared her skin, and tears streamed down her cheeks. This was the moment when she let herself feel. Her parents weren’t there to hit her. She let herself cry, gripping her leg. The wound hurt, but not as bad as her heart. It was a cliche, yes, but it was the only way to describe her tangled mess of feelings. What did she do to deserve this? She had always heard that you get what you deserve. What did she do? What could she have possibly done to cause her own mother and father to abuse her?
She had never once felt an ounce of love from her parents. Even as a child. She was always disregarded, tossed to the side like an old rag doll. The physical abuse didn’t start until she was 15. She remembered the first time. She’d been hit before. Her mother would slap her arm when she was scolding her. That was normal. Then one day, her mother asked her to put dinner in the oven so it would be ready by the time she got home from work. Sage forgot to do it, and her mother beat her. It happened time and time again after that until it became routine. She still couldn’t help but hope that her mother and father would apologize. That they would hug her and kiss her and tell her they loved her, promise they would never hit her ever again. But she knew that would never happen. And with every glass she served, she was only fanning the flames.
She grabbed the kitchen rag and tied it to the deep scarlet gash on her leg to stop the bleeding. The blood was pouring fast, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded. She gripped the counter, pulling herself up, and limped to the stairs. She looked up from the bottom step, counting a total of 13 stairs she had to trudge up. She pulled herself up with the railing, putting all of her weight on her healthy leg. The blood had begun seeping through the rag she tied around the wound, and the sight of it made her sick to her stomach. After what felt like a decade, she finally made it to the top of the stairs. She collapsed on the floor, the world around going in and out of focus. She was going to faint. With every ounce of strength she had in her, she dragged herself to her bedroom and shut the door. She didn’t think she would lose this much blood. She must have cut a major artery. She lay down on the floor, her eyes fluttering towards the window. The curtains were still drawn. She longed to leave. To travel the world and leave her worries behind. To leave her parents behind. Her parents never cared for her anyway. They never even cared. Never cared.