As she beats me to the ground I finally realize the burden that I am in her life. Her bony, ice cold hands slap my face making it look red enough to blister. My back slams into the already bruised wall. Her look of disgust sinks into my chest. It feels like a boulder has been placed on me, crushing my rib cage. I look around at the once familiar family room. Brown carpet, old wooden couches, the smell of cigarettes. This was my childhood now it is my prison. My mother huddles against the couch cushion clutching the bottle of vodka with one hand leaving her other hand free for the cigarette. She has wasted her life by purposely starting drunken fights with me. I hate how she treats me and I hate her. I leave the room but I will never be able to leave my prison.