She left me a small stack of papers and asked if I would read it. Said it was
a short story she had been working on. I sat d over by the
window, the light was always better there any ad plenty of
time so I said I would. It was a story about a whose mother
had past away when she was very young, le father who
drank too much just to ease the pain of rai but as time went
on, abuse and anger began to fill the hous ool just so people
woundn't see the marks and bruises. Her ause that's when
everything started getting worse. The att t night. He was
always stronger so it was difficult to fight b reaming at the top
of h ice, calling her a cheap little whore a ntil she just couldn't
tak nymore. She had tried many times t lice station until her
fath ame to pick her up. He would tell them self and that she was
gett ossional help with her problems. I stopped ying to figure how such
a sto ome from someone so sweet and friendly, b st fiction. I glanced down
at the mall stack and realised there were just a few more pages, so I continued reading. As
the story went o hat this just wasn't a story she had thought up, more like a sui
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