Yelling.
No, shouting.
Maybe screaming is what I wake up to. My parents. My dad holding my cell phone, my mom holding a Bible. I hold my breath.
My fingerprint protected cell phone.
Full of all the things you don't want your God-fearing parents to find. I'm no worse than your typical rebellious teenager.
Rock and hip-hop songs full of profanity. Tweets where I use the Lord's name in vain (god forbid). Photos of me with my supposedly Christian friends, at parties.
But worst of all are the texts.
There are none in the last month. Everyone forgets about this shithole town the minute summer starts. Except for me. I can't escape my parents.
If I were to leave they would track me down and beat me up in places that my Sunday dresses can't hide.
Furthest back are the texts to my friends, where I tell them how I find other girls attractive and for the first time in my life realize that some people actually cared about me and not just the idea of a perfect me.
Of course people like that would never stay in my stupid life.
Slightly more recent are the ones where I flirt with girls: tell them they're pretty, ask them out, tell them I'd like to kiss them.
The newest texts I needed to fingerprint-protect are photos I sent to my (recently ex-) girlfriend. Of myself. Featuring things such as my breasts. Occasionally accompanied by suggestive messages. Do I need to go into more detail?
And now all of these compromising files are in the hands of my hysterical parents, who have somehow obtained my fingerprint in order to look through the cell phone I pay for.
I shouldn't be surprised it took them this long to find out, but I lay there, shocked, unable to make out the words they're screaming.
I snap back into reality.
"What will everyone say?" my mother cries out. "If this gets around town everyone will know I failed as a parent!"
Then don't tell anyone, dumbass.
The stream of insults and profanities from my father's mouth ceases.
"No daughter of mine will be a fucking dyke," he says too calmly.
He undoes his belt.
I don't know if he's going to hit me or rape me. Neither would surprise me. It's happened before in the past 17 years. Longer if you count doing it to my mother.
But when we all go out in public we have to act like a perfect family.
Perfect little Grace in her perfect little pink dress with her perfect grades in school. Her parents are a perfect couple and they are all perfect Christians. What a lovely happy family.
It's easier to go along with it when we're in public. I'm so afraid of causing a big scene that I wouldn't dare act out in public.
I've never asked anyone for help. It hasn't seemed worth it to disrupt the precarious balance of my fucked-up life.
Until tonight.
This morning? I catch a glimpse of my phone, but I can't see the time. I think it's still dark outside.
All my life I've managed to hide just enough to keep the beatings bearable, managed to keep my grades and appearances up just enough to seem like a good Christian girl to all my parents' friends.
There's no point now.
I stand up, meeting my father's eyes as he looks up from removing his belt. I'm trembling. Who wouldn't be, when their life just came crashing down?
But I try not to reveal how terrified I am as I step to the side and head towards the door.
"Grace!" my mother shrieks.
My father grabs my shoulder.
I spin around, punch him in the jaw, and run.
