My father hits me with a chair this evening. He's home earlier than usual, six, but he's still violently drunk. It kind of makes me sadder when he comes back earlier, because then I know he's been drinking since the morning, all day long. I scream out in pain but don't bother fighting back, I just run into my room locking the door firmly behind me.

The bruise already starts to form on my shoulder and a sharp pain flows through my body.

I'm glad for the bathroom joint to my room, so I wet a towel with ice-cold water and press it against my shoulder.

It stings.

The pain eases slightly, and the coldness numbs my shoulder.

I hear him cussing in the hallway, and I hear something fall, glass shattering. He leaves, footsteps heavy, stomping down the stairs and I peek out at the destroyed wall hanging.

The beautiful portrait of my mother lies in shattered tiny fragments on the floor.

I dart around the sharp glass pieces and slowly pick the painting up. It's beautiful, and so realistic so I roll it up and carry it back to my room, tucking it safely in my wardrobe.

The glass lies there forgotten in the hallway.

It's like an obstacle in the path of life. And if you jump too high over it you'll never come down again.