"Rose!" bellowed my father, "god damn, where the fuck are you? Your bus is here!"I abruptly caked on the rest of my face powder over the large purplish bruise on my cheekbone, before pulling down the sleeves of my t-shirt to hide my arms. As suspected my no-good, dead beat, abusive father was already back in front of the television, a can of beer in his hand softly muttering profanities under his name is Rosemarie Hathaway, and I've been abused for as long as I can remember, I think it started around the time my mother died. No one knows why she died, she just lost the will to live I guess. It happened right after I had broken my arm, I had been out at my grandparents' house when I tried to climb the tall oak in their back yard. I had made my seven year old legs climb up all the ruts and limbs until I had finally reached the top. It was magical to say the least, you could see for miles and the sight of the sun shining through the leaves, transforming them into the most precious gem stones you had ever seen...beautiful. Everything seemed perfect, for one moment; frozen in time there was nothing but light, and beauty, and everything good in the world. Then I had to go and ruin it…as always. I had leaned forward to get a better view of the tiny cocoon that was resting on a forked branch a few feet in front of me, when suddenly I was airborne. Panic surged through me and the fall seemed to last forever; when I had finally hit the ground I hit it hard. The impact snapped my head back, crashing my teeth together; I would have been fine if I hadn't tried to catch myself. It had sounded like a branch snapping off, in fact that's what I thought had happened until I felt the pain. It was excruciating, my mind wouldn't work and when I tried to get up and walk to the house my knees buckled and I fell flat on my face.I don't know how long I laid there before she found me. When my mother saw me she let out a shriek and ran to my side, not a smart decision for someone who was ten months pregnant and due in two weeks. But what was just downright stupid was when she scooped me up into her arms and waddled inside before calling a doctor. The doctor ended up at our house all night, first to set and cast my arm, and then to deliver the baby that wasn't due for another two weeks. I remember running to the open door when I heard her screams start, seeing the blood soaked sheets and my mother's ashen face contorted with pain. What I remember most of all was the quiet little tiny person abandoned on the floor, purple bruises on its neck where the umbilical cord had wrapped around suffocating it. My little brother had died before he had even gotten a chance to live. My mother followed after a week told me later that my mother had been on bed rest, told not to exert herself in any way so that the umbilical cord wouldn't wrap around the baby's neck. My father had come home two days after my mother passed away; he went with my grandmother into his bedroom where she told him everything that had happened. That was the first time he hit me.