*A/N* strictly speaking unfinished, but I kind of like it :)

When he shows up again, I’ll be ready. Or so I tell myself.             I’m standing at the end of my driveway watching nothing but the world go by in a blur so fast that I can’t make anything of it. My face is sore because of his fist against my cheekbone and my wrists are bruised from his brutal grip. Thinking of this, I pull my striped jacket sleeve down lower.             He was angry. That was all. He didn’t really mean to hurt me.             A cool breeze blows just as the words let themselves be known in my mind. It says, teasingly, don’t kid yourself, Jen.             I swallow and feel my swollen cheek gently with my fingertips. I want to flinch even at the touch. I tug my jacket hood further over my face.             I’d better get inside, I think, but I still don’t move. Mom’s car is in the driveway still, and I can’t let her see my face, which is weird because she lives here and I live here and I can’t just eternally keep my jacket on unless I want to overheat and die.             Do I want to die?             Shocked at myself, I push the question away. After a moment, I sit down at the end of the driveway and hug my knees to my chest.             I don’t want to go back there, I don’t want to go inside, I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay right here in my little bubble at the end of my driveway and never ever ever move again. Permanently stuck in my own time. I’ll never have to worry about getting to school or work on time. Ever ever.             I remember, before all of this started, when I tried to run away because I was mad at my older sister. I got to the end of the driveway, moved into the grass, and camped out. Mom gently brought me back in when I was asleep. Being six, I was of course sound asleep and didn’t understand anything when I woke up in my bed.             “Jenny! Hey, are you all right?” crap, what’s she doing here?             “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say stiffly to my sister without turning around. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”              “Nah, they fired me. You sure you’re okay?” Emma sits down next to me. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted to be, except for the fact that I’m smarter. I think. She has naturally tan skin and golden blond hair. She’s curvy in all the right places, and an athlete.             I, on the other hand, am rail thin, too tall and pale, and my hair is so blond it’s almost white. I haven’t looked at my face, but I probably look even worse now.             “Take off the jacket, would you? It’s hot, and it’s killing me just to look at you,” Emma says cheerfully.             “U-uh, no thanks,” I stammer.             I feel Emma’s eyes on me. “Hey, did everything go all right with Dad?” she asks intensely.             I nod, and it hurts my neck.             “Take off the jacket, Jen.”             Tears run down my cheeks and I lower my hood. Emma’s eyes widen and she gasps.             “Ohmygod. I’m getting Mom--stay right here.” I do, and I listen to the wind rush past me and to Mom telling me that it’s all right and my father’s got bad things coming his way and Emma crying and asking Mom if I’ll be okay and Mom saying yes I’ll be fine and still be beautiful and I really do wonder what my face looks like to get even Mom looking so upset because Emma’s always been overdramatic and I really really want to know what my face looks like because I’m tired and scared and crying and I don’t know why and when we get to the doctor even he looks surprised and Emma holds my hand like a good big sister when he’s looking at my cheek.             “What did this to you?” asks the doctor.             “My father,” I say bluntly. I don’t want to hide it anymore. My father hates me and my face. He beats me on a regular basis. I love him and it hurts for this to happen.             The doctor looks at me, lips slightly parted.             “Your father isn’t a very nice man,” he says in a surprised tone.             “No, he’s not,” says my mother stonily from the doorway. The doctor doesn’t say anything and feels around on my cheek. I can’t really see out of that eye anymore.             “Well-will you—er—be able to fix it?” Emma asks hesitantly.             The doctor backs off. “Bruise cream and ice are the only things I can recommend right now. And some time and distance from your father,” he says. He’s addressing me, which I appreciate. He looks me straight in the eye and says, “You’re a beautiful girl. Once that bruise is gone, we might have to work on your eye a bit, but I can’t tell right now. We’ll figure it out, all right?”             “All right,” I whisper.