A memory washes over me.

"No! You cannot fucking leave, Mitchell! Get back here!"

There was a sound of shattering glass. 

My seven-year-old self crawled deeper under the covers, covering my head with a pillow. I had matured very rapidly in the past year, having heard fights every other night. My father was gone when they didn't fight, and Mom cried, a bottle of Vodka in her hand. She didn't even hide it from me. I tried to hide it from myself. At this point in time, I didn't have any friends, so I didn't have to worry about hiding it from anyone. 

"Shut the fuck up, Avery. I will do whatever the hell I want."

I didn't like it when he talked to her like that. But what was I supposed to do? I sure as hell didn't want him talking to me like that. So I tried to tune it out and fall asleep. I could hardly focus in school; lord knows how I passed. Sure, it was elementary school, but I was constantly falling asleep from nights interrupted by fights and even when I was awake, I was always zoning out, fearing my dad won't be home until the day he finally wasn't.