I step into my car and light a cigarette. Yea, it's bad for me. I know. I've tried to stop, I just can't. It's the only thing that relaxes me, really. I ran away from home when I was seventeen, because my father was abusive to me. My mother died when I was nine. My dad changed allot when he passed, he got depressed and started doing crystal meth. I thought I deserved the abuse my father gave me. Tears form in my eyes, as I throw the cigarette butt out the window. I coughed an kept driving. My place is small, but I don't need anything more. It's the only place in the world where I feel somewhat safe. I double lock everything at night, hoping and praying someone doesn't break in. I'm not really comfortable around guys. I would rather be snuggled in bed watching a movie than out with my friends. I try to make it seem like on the outside I'm a normal girl, and the abuse I revived made me stronger. But it didn't. It hurt me, killed me on the inside. My dad would say to me, "Fat Bitch, or Ugly" The words hurt more than the belt in my opinion. I push the thoughts out of my mind and pull into my paved driveway.