I shoved the last of my clothes into my duffel bag. I didn't have a lot. Just a few small bottles of soap, and 2 sets of clothes. The recruiter told me they'd provide me with the rest. Which I was thankful for. I didn't have a lot of supplies, nor did I have the money to get anything I might have needed.
Today is March 15th, 1945. To most, today was a normal day. Children would be sitting in class, gaining an education. Adults would be working to pay bills. But today is a special day for me. Today, I turn 18. Most kids my age would dread their 18th birthdays. Their parents would be removing them from insurance and sending them off into the 'Real World'.
I had been apart of the so called real world since I was 8. My parents weren't exactly the best. My father was a factory worker who had a real problem with drugs and alcohol. He worked double shifts most of the time, which made him exhausted and frustrated. I understood that. I didn't understand why he took it out on me. I had been a victim to his abuse for years.
My mother wasn't physically abusive, she would never risk ruining her nails or makeup. But she didn't mind using her voice. It was just as bad as the physical pain I had to endure.
Both of them were usually high or drunk. Which left me to do what the grown ups should have been doing. I paid the bills and bought the groceries. Usually a loaf of bread with a half pound of ham.
I had ordered heating and water, among other things. I had also managed to give myself a decent education. I'd use couch change to rent books from a public library.
But no more. Today I was 18. An adult. I was no longer stuck here.
I grabbed my bag from my now bare bead and slugged it over my shoulder. I took a deep breath as I stared at my reflection.
I hated how I resembled my mother. Well physically. Mentally? I'd never be anything like her.
Without wanting to wait any longer, I twisted the rusty handle on my door and exited my room for the last time.
"Where are you off to? We haven't had breakfast yet and there's a mess in the den." My father's gruff voice boomed.
I shook my head and attempted to walk past him.
His bony fingers dug into my shoulder, pulling me to a stop.
"Clean it your damn self." I managed through gritted teeth. I surprised myself. I would have never talked back to him out of fear of what he might do.
"Excuse me? Would you like to repeat yourself?" Father narrowed his eyes at me and began to raise his hand.
"I said, Clean it yo-"
His hand came in contact with my face, sending my body to the floor.
"Clean up that damn mess."
I glared up at my father and picked myself up off the floor.
"No. Im 18 today." I spat.
His face remained the same as if that meant nothing. Well I guess to my parents it didn't.
"You're still under MY roof. Which means you listen to your mother and I. So when I say ' Clean that damn mess', I mean clean that god damn mess!" His bony fingers wrapped themselves in my dark hair, which caused a scream to erupt from my lips.
I reached to the counter and grabbed the closest thing my fingers could grab. It was a metal serving tray.
I held it with my left hand, which left it wobbling, but managed to slam it down on his bald head.
He yelled out in pain and released my hair.
I quickly grabbed my duffel bag and ran out of the house, Not looking back.