This is a journal. Don't open it. You have no right to the secrets that are contained in it.
Well, I suppose it's a free country. You can open it if you want---but you shouldn't. Would you really go through someone's journal without their permission?
...I knew you would.

April 4, 2011

My dad told me he hates me today. That's okay, though. He was drunk. He didn't know what he was saying. He's been drunk a lot lately. Ever since mom left. I wish he'd stop drinking. That bottle is like poison to him. He can't stop drinking. Every sip is like an acid that burns through his stomach. It doesn't quench his thirst, so he drinks more. But it just seeps through the stomach and creates an even stronger desire for beer. So he takes another sip. And so on.

Anyway, school was good today. At least no one talked to me, so that's good. I hate it when people talk to me. They don't usually, but when they do they make my blood boil. Lunch is still my least favorite class. Always has been. Probably because that's when I feel the most vulnerable. I'm alone at a table, eyes wander and sometimes fall on me. Then they stare at me. An empty stare---like a cobra. I hate it. I just want them to stop. I want to stand up and scream at them. Scream, "STOP!" Something. They deserve to be screamed at. But the teachers don't do anything. They just sit there, give out assignments, then leave the students to do whatever they want. As long as it doesn't affect them, it's allowed. The school claims to have rules, but what are rules if they're never enforced?

Brad is still sick. I wish he would at least talk to me. He just lies in his bed, staring into space. His face is always so white too. He may just be mad at me though. That would explain why he ignores me. Usually we get along. But ever since dad and him had that fight, he never speaks to me. He just lays in bed and stares into space. He doesn't move, doesn't talk, doesn't breathe. I miss him. Maybe one day when he feels good enough he'll get off his bed to eat or drink. I bet it'll be soon. After all, no ten year-old boy can go a whole two weeks without eating and not feel a little hungry.

Why doesn't my dad know my name? He keeps calling me other names. Names I don't recognize. They must be popular names though, because I hear students at school call each other them all the time. Maybe they're nicknames. Yeah. That's it. Nicknames.

Well, I'm tired. I should probably sleep. I'll just go and say goodnight to Brad again. I might even say goodnight to my dad. Probably not though. He's still drunk. Sometimes he hurts me when he's drunk. I don't want to aggravate him.


The End

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