Everyday I am reminded of how I hate myself. When I look in the mirror, all I see is ugly. My ugly face, my ugly fat, my ugly scars, my ugly bruises, my ugly burns, just ugly. That's when I have to eat. I eat and eat. I feel so much worse, even more hatred for myself. So, I throw it up. After that, I won't eat anything for a week. No one at my house notices. They wouldn't notice if one day I was gone. If I never came back. My dad hates my mom, my siblings, and most of all, me. He beats us all, everyday. It's much worse when he gets drunk. Sometimes it's so bad, we have to go to the hospitial. We lie, because if we said it was him, he would get even worse. My older sister, Ramona, almost told once. She wrote about it in her diary and father read it. She was grounded for a month, switched to homeschooling, and got a black eye and some bruises. He almost broke her arm, but we'd already been to the hospitial three times that month. Anthony, my little brother, doesn't understand why. Why father beats us. Why he beats mom. He doesn't know and neither do I. All of us have scars from him, but I have my own scars. All up my arms and legs. Some new, some old, some deep, some not so deep, some small, some huge. No one knows except Anthony. Out of my five siblings, he's the only one who treats me like a normal human being. He's twelve, two years younger than me. I miss being that age, back when I didn't care. Back when I was normal. I was cute, with my blonde hair, my bright green eyes, which have now gone dull. Dull from pain, from suffering. From knowing. Knowing what life really is. You are only alive to make a new life, and then to die. Nothing more, nothing less. All the shit in between is just a waste. Time between birth, giving birth, and death. Love, school, friends, life, it's all pointless things to distract us from the fact that we are just made to make more. I told Ramona this last month on her 16th birthday. She rolled her eyes and got into a car with her boyfriend. I was so annoyed I almost told dad what she was actually doing when she said she was going to a friend's to study. Sneaking away to sleep with Josh. Her 17 year old boyfriend of two years. I have no idea how she kept that secret, but she did. Only Hanna and I knew. Hanna was only ten, but she knew as much as I did about life. She was quiet, pretty, smart. Smart enough to stay out of dad's way. She was small enough to sneak away when he was mad. I wish I was. I'm too tall, too fat. I'm six foot and 115 lbs. Eveyone says I'm underweight, that a girl my height is supposed to be 160 lbs. But I don't think so. I'm way too fat. People say a lot of untrue things. Like, they say I'm pretty. That is so untrue. My blonde hair is stick straight and falls only above my B cups. My dull green eyes are just, dull. My face is too round, too heartshaped and round. My thighs are too big, my boobs are too small, my teeth are just weird. I don't know how people are jealous of me. They wouldn't be if they ever saw my bruises, my scars, my burns. I wear jeans, jackets, long sleeves, braclets, anything to cover them. I wear tons of foundation, just to cover the bruises on my face. People have said things like "You don't need that much makeup". But, even if I wasn't abused, I'm still so ugly, I need the make up. People think I say I'm ugly, just to get attention. They don't know that everytime I see my face in a mirror, it kills me. I wish I was as pretty as my friends, as my siblings, as my mom. My mom used to be a local model. She would've gotten famous if she hadn't met my father and gotten pregnant. He was her first, so she felt compelled to say yes when he proposed. I've seen the wedding pictures. He looks happy, joyful, unlike now. My mom looks like she made the biggest mistake of her life. It's true. She could leave him, but she's scared. She thinks everyone will judge her. Even if she did, she can't support all five of her kids at home and Jack in college. I envy Jack, being able to leave for good. I haven't seen him since we dropped him off at college two years ago. I doubt he'll ever be back in this house if father is here. I don't blame him, he got it the worst. I had seen him break arms, break legs, break his nose, get cuts on his lips, everything. I wish he'd taken me with. I wish I had told him everything so he would've taken me. He always knew something was wrong with me, but he didn't know what. He knew I didn't have any friends. I still don't, only one or two who only like me because I'm smart and help them with homework. Well, they say that's not true, but that's what I think. Why would anyone want to be my friend?