Part 1
BROKEN GLASS: EVERCHANGING.
CHPT. 1
I woke up the rays of sunshine coming in from the window. The taste of blood from my fat lip reminded me of what happened last night. My mom had been drinking, as always, and decided that I was giving her some type of “attitude”. One think led to another. A punch led to a kick. So now I lay here, the morning after, with the bruises from one of our oh-so-regular fights.
Every inch of my body ached. And I had three fresh cuts on my stomach from where she had scratched me with her long nail.I slowly dragged myself out of bed and over to the bathroom mirror. Horrifying was an understatement. But I know that my mom did not get away unscathed either.
I had a black eye and a fat lip. There were bruises all over my body, and a little bit of blood had stained my shirt. I lifted my tank top to reveal the three cuts. Taking some Neosporin out of the cabinet, I dabbed it on the open wounds. It had a little sting to it, but I knew that it was good for the cuts.
I looked over at the clock.
7:30
Crap. I was going to be late for school, again. I dabbed some cover up on my back eye, but it was not enough to completely cover the bruising. I returned to my room and quickly changed into some decent clothes, then grabbed my book bag and was out the door.
“Your late,” said my homeroom teacher as I walked into the class room well after the bell had rang.
“I know, sorry,” I said and then took a seat at my desk.
The rest of the hour of biology droned on about the human body, and its process of digesting food; which admittedly, made me a little queasy.
About halfway through my teacher’s discussion about how our stomach functions, his class room telephone rang.
“Uhuh…. okay…. thanks,” he said and then hung up the phone. “Haley Smith,” he called out to me. I raised my head up. “They want you in the principles office. Our class had matured form saying “OOHHHHH” when some one was called up to the office. But I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I made my way from my desk to the door.
I walked across campus to the offices. Opening the door to the front office, I walked over to the receptionist. “Mrs. Jones wants to see me,” I said.
The lady gave me a sympathetic look and then said, “Go on in, honey,”
Honey? What was that about? I though. I shook it off. After all, someone who willing spent the day with a bunch of acting out teenagers must have been a little bit crazy. I walked into the principles office to see Mrs. Jones sitting at her desk, and another woman sitting in a chair opposite her.
“Haley, this is Miranda Press,” Mrs. Jones said, “She’s from child services…”
