justintime
She'd never cared for the bible, for religion, for putting one's trust into something so intangible. It was a lot of faith into something she could never count on. Was she worthy of something, of help, of guidance, of anything? Who could judge? She wasn't about to put her safety or time into something so fickle. They said it would give her stable ground, a foundation on which to build her life. But after far too many earthquakes, it was going to take a lot more than that to convince her.
There's no place like home to make you feel like you're in hell.
No, really.
There's nothing about my house that makes me feel comfortable. My parents hate me, no lie. They've told me as much. They've also informed me that I'm a waste of space, a waste of oxygen, and worthless.
I reminded them that they made me, and they didn't really like that. They locked me in the closet, and I hardly struggled. It's never done me any good before, so why should it do anything now?
But there's one difference between my personal hell and actual hell--I'm getting out of here. I'm going to make a name for myself, mark my words. I'm going to prove my worth. I'm going to kill my parents by filling them with guilt and regret, and I'll be so successful that I won't even look over my shoulder at them.