It's just past 10:30 as I open my guitar case. Taking out my guitar, I absentmindedly begin to pluck at the strings. Just as I start strumming it a little louder, dad starts to yell.
"Stop plucking that damn guitar, it sounds like a cat's dying!" He screams from the living room. I'm sitting two rooms away, in the den.
"No," I say quietly, but firmly. I can hear him getting up and stomping through the rooms until he's standing in front of me.
"What did you just say to me?" He yells, his face flushed red with anger.
"I said no," I mumble, not looking him in the eye.
He slams his hand down onto my desk, shaking it and making many of my little trinkets fall off. "You will do as I tell you!"
"No I won't. This is what I want to do and you can't stop me," I say. I still haven't looked at him. I busy myself with picking up the fallen trinkets and putting them back onto my desk.
Since I never looked at him, I didn't see his hand coming towards my face. With a loud crack, his palm met my cheek.
"I can hit a lot damn harder than that and I'm not afraid to. I'll even call child services for you," he growls roughly. Before I can respond, he turns and stomps back off to the living room.
Carefully, I touch my cheek with my left hand. I can tell already that it'll be bruised soon. Fighting back tears, I place my guitar back in it's case, close it, and hurry upstairs with it.
This wasn't the first time he had hit me before, but it still hurt me, physically and mentally. No longer did I feel like practicing; I felt like dying now, instead.