Some people talk about their eternal flame, and what keeps it burning. Friends, family, money, love, and all that great crap that no one cares for. That’s what they say. But I think that if eternal flames were real, mine would be burnt out years ago.
My mother died when I was 4 years old. Now I’m 14 years old. In the span of 10 years, my dad has had 10 girlfriends and 3 wives, all of which he broke up with or divorced. Now he is married to Henrietta Labe. Henrietta (or the evil one) has verbally abused me for half a year. My dad still wonders why I’m never home.
I try to stay with my friends’ house all day, but the evil calls her mom and says I need to come home. I have one and a half friends: my best friend Nicole, and half friend Ashlei. Ashlei is very popular, and often doesn’t want to be seen hanging around with me. Nicole, who is insanely smart, sticks by me every day.
One day last year, we went to a board walk. I stepped into a fortune teller booth, handed the lady five bucks, and sat down. She took my pal, and I winced. I hated human contact. “Hmm. Very interesting. I cink you true ‘ave da life of a mees-feet. Yet, you are passionate ‘bout writing. So, it is a stretch, but, it iz to zay zat you are passionate ‘bout passion itzelf. A very vise cing indeed.” She told in me her weird accent. I pulled my hand away.
“I am passionate about nothing! I love no one but my one friend! I even hate my own father now! I have no passion!” I screamed at her. She looked stunned. I stormed out of the tent. We went home after that. Henrietta was waiting at the door with an evil grin.
“Did you have fun, idiot girl? Did you and your stupid friend have a good time?” she whispered maliciously. I did something I would never regret. I punched her, straight in that fake nose of hers. when it started to bleed, I left for my room.
I turned on my laptop, and pressed a button. Immediately, every camera I put up in the house turned on. The evil one would be caught at last.
I walked down the steps to the kitchen, where she was applying towels to her face. “Henrietta, I’m sorry I hit you. I don’t know what came over me.” I said, all innocence.
She was furious. “I do. You damn little idiot. You think that because you’re taller, you’re in charge of me. You’re not, and will never be. So take this.” Then, she pushed me to the ground, and started saying curse words so bad, that even I wouldn’t say them. I was sprawled on my back, and she punched my stomach. Then my face, arms and legs so I couldn’t get up. “I’m going out with friends. Have fun dying!” She sneered. When she closed the door, I smiled. She was sooo dead.
In an hour I woke up in the hospital, in bed, with numerous stitches. I asked what happened. My dad said he had found me on the kitchen floor, in a blood pool, with huge bruises and deep gashes, some filled with glass. The gashes hadn’t been there when I fell unconscious. My guess was Henrietta had come back and sliced me with glass before she left for good.
I sat up. “We need to get home. I can show you what happened at home. You’ll never believe me if I tell you now.” I rushed. My dad nodded. We went home.
“Dad, after I came home, Henrietta called me and Nicole idiots. So I punched her in the face. This is what happened next.” I played him the tape. He watched, amazed, at what his wife had done to me. It turns out, Henrietta and her pals did come back, and with broken beer bottles, and she tried to kill me. Standing next to me was the police officer, watching the tape, too. When the video finished, guess who walked in. Henrietta. She looked at my dad, and at me. “Oh sweetie, what have you done to yourself now?” she asked me sweetly. Daddy turned bright purple.
“You would know, you did this to her!” he yelled. The officer walked up to her, and cuffed her.
“You are hereby under arrest for the child abuse that is clearly shown in this video. If you would like, sir, you can pursue a lawsuit against her.” he addressed my dad. He nodded.
“I did nothing wrong!” she screamed in anger. The officer pointed to the screen, and made her watch every second of it. She cried.
In the next few months, I recovered, Henrietta lost everything, and went to jail. My father no longer dates women who I don’t approve of. The next week in school, we had a substitute teacher. She walked in, her curly blond hair covering her face.
“Hello,” she said quietly. She picked up her head and I gasped. “I will be your sub today. My name is Henrietta Labe.”