When I left home for the first time, I was 17 years old.<\/p>\n
In the middle of the night, I opened my bedroom window, tossed out a backpack and my car keys, pushed my car to the end of the street so it wouldn’t wake up my step-father when I started it, and drove away. <\/p>\n
Either he was going to kill me, or I was going to kill him. I didn’t intend to give him the satisfaction of either. My black eye and broken ribs would heal, and my step-father could fuck himself. He was certainly never going to fuck me<\/em> again. I just wouldn’t think about my mother. Not yet. <\/p>\n In a few weeks I would be 18. Then I would be safe. That’s what I thought. That if I was an adult in the eyes of the law, my bastard of a step-father could never hurt me again. <\/p>\n It turned out I was wrong about that. I was wrong about everything. Almost everything. He never raped me again. As I climbed out the window that night, I was sure that the worst thing that would ever happen to me was in the past. <\/p>\n There are worse things than being raped and beaten by your parent. Much worse. No one should ever have to know that, should they?<\/p>\n As I drove away from that place that was never my home, I didn’t cry. I would save that for later.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"